


Life Goes On

by Door



Series: Trains, Planes, and Boats [2]
Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M, Life Partners
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-10
Updated: 2013-06-10
Packaged: 2017-12-14 14:33:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 34,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/837963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Door/pseuds/Door
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2 years after the Fischer job. Sequelish to In Which Our Heroes Ride A Train.  Eventually there will be boats. </p><p>"I love you something fierce, you know," she mumbled into his back.<br/>"You're just saying that because I'm making phyllo."<br/>"Possibly."</p><p>(Written in 2010-2011, originally posted on ff.net.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Life is Terrifyingly Domestic

With a flick of a switch, the record started spinning.  Ariadne carefully lowered the stylus onto the edge of the disc.  For what wasn't the first time, she considered that if she had known about the utterly phenomenal collection of records he had stashed in climate-controlled storage when they first met, no power on Earth could have kept her from going after the man.  She certainly wouldn't have waited  _months._   She eyed both record and stylus carefully as she gently touched one to the other and reflected, also not for the first time, that, professions of love aside, her life would be forfeit should harm come to any of these albums.  The risk was worth it, though, and Paul McCartney's voice came through the speakers, also vintage, clear and a little rough, singing about a blackbird.  It was her favourite album to work to, though it had belonged to Arthur's father before him, and was the prize of the lot.

"Alright, Crash,"  Ariadne declared, turning to address the cat that was sitting on the sofa in her office regarding her quizzically, "It's time to make some mazes."  Crash, fully living up to his name, responded by attempting to walk gracefully over to her and tipping himself off the couch.

("It's like he's got a permanent inner-ear infection," had been Arthur's initial observation of the feline.  "Your cat's a bloody drunk!" had been Eames'.  Cobb's daughter Phillipa had called him  "The crashiest cat I've ever seen," and the title had stuck.)

"That's okay, dear," Ariadne consoled her companion, who had flopped over on his back and was currently squirming around on the ground, "You'll be much happier down there, anyway."  With a contented little hum, she lifted her favourite mechanical pencil, regarded the challenge presented by the expanse of white paper before her, and set to work, unfortunate cat forgotten.

When Arthur returned home, he found them thus, record finished but still spinning, girlfriend utterly absorbed in lines on a page, and cat splayed with absolutely no dignity on the rug.  He turned the record over and replaced the stylus, but otherwise did not disturb the scene that had come to mean "home" to him, more than anything ever had before.  The cat trailed him from the room, ever hopeful that food would be forthcoming, rapped his head on the doorframe, and promptly forgot he'd been going anywhere at all.

An hour later, rumbling stomachs and the wafting smell of something delicious roused both girl and cat.  Ariadne sat back in her chair, surveying the afternoon's work with satisfaction, before switching off her desk lamp and heading for the kitchen.  She scooped up Crash as she went, saving him the ordeal of actually having to navigate the flat.

It was a masterpiece of pre-war architecture, their flat was, and Arthur and Ariadne both adored it.  They had decided about a year ago that, while living out of hotel rooms might make sense in their line of work, it was far from satisfying.  Ariadne, especially, wanted a home base, so they sat down with an atlas in a bookstore in Hong Kong and considered their options.

Ariadne had grown up in Maine, but had been an orphan in the foster system from the age of 12 on.  She'd been lucky to have only been bounced through three homes in her six years in the system, but had remained close with none of the families.  She vaguely remembered having cousins somewhere in Canada, but they had never gotten in touch with her after her parents' deaths, and she didn't have a clue how to go about getting in contact with them.  Arthur had offered to try once, but she'd turned him down.  Perhaps someday down the line, but why reach out to family when you'd never have time to visit?

Arthur's parents had been older when he was born, and his father had passed away while he was still in high school.  His mother had developed Alzheimer's a year or so afterwards, and had spent her remaining years in a home in Tucson.  They had corresponded for as long as she was able, but soon even that was gone.  She had died during Arthur's first tour of duty.  He, too, had scattered distant cousins, but they'd never been close.  Dom Cobb was the closest thing to family Arthur had had for a long time.

Since Dom brought the children to France every summer to spend time with their grandparents in the home Mal had grown up in on the outskirts of Paris, and since Paris had been the only home Ariadne had known for nearly a quarter of her life, it was decided that they would settle there.  That they had stumbled across a magnificently well-preserved building in the Art Deco style had simply sealed the deal.  The architecture perfectly framed the combination of Arthur's preferred modern style with Ariadne's more eclectic collection of antiques and flea market finds.  The sweet, stupid kitten Arthur had found in the building's trash bin was just the cherry on top of a situation neither her nor Ariadne had ever actually expected to find themselves in.

Also unexpected had been the discovery of Arthur's culinary talents.  He was a surprisingly creative chef, and excelled at cuisine that required immense skill.  Ariadne had yet to eat a soufflé in a restaurant that could rival one whipped up in their own oven.  Since Ariadne enjoyed eating but frequently let the necessity of doing so slip her mind in lieu of other projects, the arrangement worked heavily in her favor.

She wandered into the kitchen with Crash hooked under her arm, both sniffing the air appreciatively.  "What's cooking?"

"Cat gets fish."

With a happy gasp, as she did every night, Ariadne whipped the cat out from under her arm and held him up so she could beam at his face.  "Crash! You get  _fish!_ "  As he did every night, Crash rolled his eyes in ecstasy and happily stuffed his face in the dish as soon as he was placed in front of it.

Cat thus disposed of, Ariadne surveyed her personal chef.  He wore no apron or hat, and rather looked as if he'd just wandered in after a long board meeting.  His pants were perfectly tailored and pressed, the points of his collar starched and smooth, buttoned to the top under the subdued blue tie and beige cashmere sweater.  The only thing un-Arthur about the whole ensemble was his stocking-feet, which Ariadne insisted on to preserve the flat's hardwood floors.  It might have seemed to some far too formal for throwing together dinner, but Ariadne loved it.  The more put-together he was, the more fun he was to muss.  And besides, he was making her something in a  _puff pastry_.  What woman alive would complain in the face of that?

She slid on her own stocking-feet up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist.

He didn't pause in his preparations.  "Hi, there."

"I love you something fierce, you know," she mumbled into his back.

"You're just saying that because I'm making phyllo."

"Possibly. But that doesn't make it any less true."  She scooted around his left side so she could lean forward under his arm without being too much in his way.  He took her less than subtle hint and paused to bend down and kiss her.  There were definite advantages to being petite in a relationship with this man.  She unwound her arms and boosted herself up on the counter about a foot away, which was the perfect distance for both observing him work and stealing bites of dough.  "How was your day?"

"Not terribly productive, I'm afraid."  While they had no active jobs currently, Arthur was often contracted by other extractors and even legitimate businessmen to do research from afar.  His abilities were both terrifying and renowned.

She frowned as she thought.  "Was this one of Saito's jobs?"

He made a sound of assent.  "Fortunately not a pressing one."  Saito had developed a habit of passing Arthur long lists of "things to keep your ears open for" which had no real deadline.  Arthur liked to tackle them in his downtime.  Ariadne had realized long ago that Arthur wasn't terribly good at "downtime."  Unless she was involved, of course.  Then, he was very, very good.  Lost in happy memories, she missed Arthur's next comment.

"What was that?"

"Pleasant thoughts?"

"Very." She grinned.  "Did you ask me something?"

"Just if you'd made any progress while abusing my father's records this afternoon."

She let the record comment slide, as he'd expected her to.  "Yes, actually. I had a breakthrough on one of the mazes Eames asked me to tackle.  I was having some trouble incorporating all of the elements he  _insisted_  were necessary without the whole thing feeling clunky and obvious."

"But you figured it out?"

"I did!  I even came up with several options for him to choose from if he doesn't like the first.  Once I got going, it was like everything else figured itself out."

He turned away from his dough long enough to lay a sweet kiss on her.  "Genius," he murmured against her mouth.

"Mmmmm," she agreed, "You know it."

He turned away so he could slide the phyllo in the oven.

"There's a big floury handprint on my favourite sweater, isn't there," she asked without looking down.

"Yup," he replied, without looking back.

"Damnit," she sighed.  Crash chose that moment to finish his fish, and voiced his agreement with Ariadne's sentiment by toppling off the counter.  Ariadne scooped him up on her way to the bedroom to change.  He'd be safer in there than underfoot in the kitchen.  Still, laundry aside, she thought dinner might be her favourite part of their Paris days.


	2. Buenos Aires is Lovely This Time of Year

Ariadne lifted the battered red leather suitcase from the floor and let it drop onto the generic coverlet in their hotel room.  She pealed off the sweater and scarf she'd been wearing for the past 20 hours and threw them onto the bed as well, then unzipped the suitcase to consider the bright mix of colors that made up its contents.  Behind her, she could hear Arthur transferring suits from his hanging bag to the closet.  She rested her hands on her hips.  "Is it even worth unpacking?  How long are we going to be here?"

"Probably two weeks at the least," he replied without pausing.

"Right.  Unpack it is, then.  But not now.  First things first: shower."

By the time she was satisfied that the last day of travel had been fully washed off, Arthur had finished his unpacking, moved her suitcase so that it now occupied a luggage stand, ordered a coffee tray from room service, and was standing at the room's large window speaking quietly into his phone.  Ariadne was dripping on the carpet, but she didn't care: she needed coffee.

They'd been together for over a year and a half, and in that time had traveled enough to have fallen into a pretty solid routine.  In the beginning, Ariadne had peppered him with questions: Did he often order room service when he traveled?  Was it okay to sightsee while in a foreign city for a job?  Which side of the bed did he prefer to sleep on?  Did he send his suits out to be pressed  _everywhere he went?_  Arthur, ever patient, provided her with answers, but asked no questions of his own.  Instead, he observed her, so subtly she often forgot she was being observed, and developed his own conclusions about her traveling habits.

And so it was that he knew when he finished his call that she'd be standing by the room service cart, wrapped in a bathrobe but still dripping water, inhaling a cup of coffee like it was manna from heaven.  He also knew what her first question would be as soon as the caffeine hit her system.

And she knew without looking that her case full of everything she needed to create full-sized architectural models would be sitting next to the gleaming silver one containing the PASIV on the far wall behind the bed.  She also knew that the single business suit she'd brought with her on the off chance she needed to look like something approaching a professional would be hanging in the closet next to his and their spare passports, currency, and firearms would be stashed in an array of secure locations.  Despite what Eames might claim, Arthur could be creative when it came to some things.

"Will there be time to tour the  _Recoleta_ , do you think?"  Ariadne always did her homework when it came to the art and architecture in any given city, just in case they had spare time to visit them.  Buenos Aires' famed cemetery was at the top of her list for their stay this time.

He stowed the phone and absently fingered his totem where it sat in his pocket.  "Should be. We could go today, if you'd like. Eames won't be getting in until tomorrow, it seems.  Airport employees on strike in Monaco."

"Mmmmm," she hummed, still unwilling to look up from her coffee.  "Another day in Monte Carlo?  Poor guy."

Arthur smirked.  "Yeah, he was really broken up about it."  He strolled across the room to lightly touch her wet hair as she continued to sip her life-saving beverage.  She raised her eyes to meet his, and then smiled against his lips as he laid them on hers.  "Feeling better?"

"Much, thank you."  She went up on her tiptoes to draw him in for another kiss.

"Let me get cleaned up.  We can head out in an hour."

"Perfect."  She watched his back as he disappeared into the bathroom, and then approached her suitcase to survey her options.  There were little moments in their life when they could have been any other couple.  She turned from her scarves to glance at the silver PASIV case where it sat passively against the wall.  They weren't any other couple, of course.  She smiled to herself.  Which was completely okay.

* * *

 _Recoleta_  had been as magnificent as the guidebooks had promised.  Arthur and Ariadne had strolled the cemetery hand-in-hand, stopping here and there so that Ariadne could snap a photo or jot down a sketch.  Arthur never really relaxed when they were out and about, especially if they were somewhere on a job, but he knew how to play the part of the tourist.

The tension in his hand where it held hers might have bothered other girls, but it was part of what made Arthur, well, Arthur.  He prided himself on his ability to keep them both safe whether they were dreaming or awake, and Ariadne loved him for it.  His eyes never seemed to rest, roaming the paths ahead of and behind them for any potential threats, but every once in awhile he would squeeze her hand softly or run his thumb over her knuckles and she knew that, whatever his distractions, he was also one hundred percent with her.  It never failed to make her heart skip a beat.

They strolled away from the cemetery and Ariadne took in the neighborhood around them.  "It almost feels like we never left Paris."

Arthur made a sound of assent.  "It's certainly not the most Latin American-looking city in the world, is it?"

Ariadne turned to him suddenly.  "Do you think we could hit Machu Picchu on the way home?"

He blinked at her in response.  "It's not really on the way…"

"Oh, you know what I mean.  We're on the continent, anyway."

He smiled. "We'll see. Have you ever had maté?"

Ariadne recognized the ploy, but allowed herself to be distracted anyway.  "I have not. What's maté?"

Maté was a highly caffeinated tea found on nearly every street corner and café in Buenos Aires.  Sipping the green beverage through a hollow wooden straw, Ariadne considered its spongy consistency.  "This is the oddest thing.  Do you think it could be our new post-flight pick-me-up?  It's really…bracing."

Arthur smiled and sipped from his own little gourd, the traditional way that maté was served.  "So what do you have planned next for us?"

Ariadne had planned to head to the botanical gardens, which was full of gorgeous wrought iron green houses, but in that moment changed her mind.  "I think we should go back to the hotel."

Arthur quirked an eyebrow at her.  "I thought you were feeling braced."

Ariadne placed her gourd down and leaned slightly forward, resting her elbows on the table and linking her fingers underneath her chin. She met his eyes directly.  "I am."

Arthur threw a few bills on the table and linked his hand with hers.  He was signaling for a cab before they were even all the way out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> La Recoleta Cemetery is an actual place, and is a must-see if you're ever in Buenos Aires. Eva Peron is entombed there, but the grave I most recommend seeking out is that of Rufina Cambaceres. Her story is tragic, but her tomb is a masterpiece of Art Nouveau design. I spent a long time studying it, and I rather think Ariadne would, too.
> 
> I meant to address Crash, but the opportunity never arose. They have a neighbor who loves their stupid cat and is always willing to have him over and feed him lots of fish. Crash doesn't like it when they leave, but he does like fish.


	3. In Which Ears Turn a Rather Bright Red

Ariadne had her supplies case open and was doing a quick inventory when there was a knock on the door.  She looked at Arthur, who shut his laptop, then moved to peer through the peephole.  He gave a slight sigh, and Ariadne grinned to herself.  Her favourite part of a job like this one was watching Eames and Arthur interact.  The door opened.

"Hey, mate," came a distinctive accent, and Ariadne watched the two men shake hands before crossing to meet the newcomer.

"Julian!" she greeted him, and raised her arms for a hug.

He embraced her with a smile.  "Hello, pet.  You're a sight for sore eyes, you are."

"Get your hands off my girlfriend."

"No."  Ariadne laughed as Eames held her tighter in response to Arthur's words.  The conversation was all part of a dance particular to the two men, and she'd long ago memorized the choreography.

She pulled back to look at his face.  "Julian, you have a black eye!"

He feigned surprise.  "Do I?"

Looking closer, she saw that the eye wasn't the only bruised part of his face.  "What happened?  Do you need some ice?"

Eames turned them so he could look at Arthur where he stood, hands in pockets, right shoulder leaning against the wall, relaxed body language belaying the jealousy in his earlier words.  "I was hoping your man there might be willing to patch me up."

Arthur quirked an eyebrow.  "I was regarding it as an improvement, actually.  Someone in Monte Carlo take exception to your gorgeous face?"

With a final affectionate squeeze of Ariadne's shoulders, Eames walked over to settle in the desk chair Arthur had recently vacated.  Arthur moved to pick up the phone on the bedside table, ordered a tray of coffee in fluent Spanish, and then sat on the edge of the bed.  Ariadne settled next to him on the floor, leaning her head against his knee.  Stretching his arms behind his head, Eames let out an exaggerated groan.  "Would you believe I was actually in the right?"

"No."

Ariadne elbowed Arthur's calf half-heartedly and laughed.

Eames gestured expansively.  "Normally I'd be right with ol' stick-in-the-mud over there, but in this case I was actually minding my own business, just playing a little craps while I waited for the strike to break.  The leggy blonde next to me at the table offered to blow on my dice for good luck—"

"Is that what they're calling it now?"

Ariadne snorted at Arthur's comment, then covered it with a sharp look and another elbow to his calf.  She gestured for Eames to continue.

"As I was saying, I'm not one to turn down a pretty lady or the possibility of some good luck."

"Whose girl was she?" Arthur asked.

Eames grimaced slightly, then looked as if he regretted the pain the movement caused his face.  "Owner of the casino. Had his goons 'rough me up,' if you can believe it.  I felt like I was in some bloody Bogart film."

"Wait." Ariadne paused.  "Are you saying that someone  _actually_  took exception to your gorgeous face?"

Eames rolled his eyes.  "Apparently."

She could feel Arthur's leg shake with the effort to restrain his laughter, and the next thing she knew, she was gripping it as tears of joy ran down her face.

"Yes, yes, I'm sure it's hilarious.  I'll just get the door then, shall I?"

Ariadne gasped a breath, but couldn't speak past her own laughter, so she gestured helplessly and eventually just nodded at Eames.  Arthur dug a couple of bills out of his pocket to tip the room service fellow as he wheeled in the tray, but otherwise stayed where he was.

Wiping tears from her eyes, Ariadne watched as Eames poured himself a cup of coffee.  "Seriously.   _Do_  you need ice?"

Eames looked at Arthur, who snorted.  "You can patch yourself up,  _pet._ "

Eames shrugged, then added cream to his coffee.

Tilting her head back so she could see Arthur, Ariadne grinned, "You should have ordered maté _._ "   Arthur smiled down at her.

Eames glanced over.  "The spongy green stuff?  Yech.  Don't know how anyone stands it."

"Oh, I don't know."  Ariadne nuzzled Arthur's knee and felt his hand tangle gently in her hair.  "It has its uses."

Eames snorted.  "Bloody disgusting, the two of you."

* * *

By the time they'd reached the bottom of the pot, the three colleagues had turned their conversation to business.

"So, what have you found out?"  Eames directed the question at Arthur.

"I was waiting for your arrival to get the whole story."

"Wait."  Ariadne looked back and forth between the two men, then settled on Arthur.  "I was under the impression that you didn't know who the mark even was."

He glanced at her.  "I didn't mean to give that impression."

Eames was still stuck on Arthur's first comment.  "What do you mean, the  _whole story?_ "

"This is the second job you've suggested targeting someone suspected of embezzling from a charity.  You know that we don't mind those jobs, even if they are lower paying."

"I prefer them, actually," Ariadne interjected.

Arthur nodded.  "Right. However, I was under the impression that  _you_  did mind them."

Ariadne looked between the men again, and this time settled on Eames.  Was it just her, or were the tips of his ears looking a little red? Was Eames… _blushing_?  "Oh, my God.  This is about a woman, isn't it, Julian?"

He whipped his gaze to hers and for once seemed to be without a retort.  He laughed ruefully, and rubbed a hand over his face.  "Always forget how quick you are."

Arthur was considering Eames in a different light.  He'd guessed that there were ulterior motives afoot, but hadn't even considered the woman angle.  He'd seen him flirt with so many people in the course of jobs, men and women, both as himself and disguised as someone else, that he'd essentially forgotten that the man might be capable of monogamy.  "So who is she?"

"Is this really relevant?"

"Julian."

Eames sighed, and looked at Ariadne.  "Her name is Anuli.  We met in Mombasa.  She works for the United Nations."

Arthur nodded, as if he'd guessed that part of the story.  "She's sending these jobs your way."

Eames managed to look even more abashed.  "She doesn't know what I do, precisely.  I don't think she thinks I do  _anything_ , actually.  She hasn't asked, and I haven't told her.  She hasn't made the connection between me and the incarceration of good Mr. Saowaluk, though she was certainly thrilled by the development."  He was referring to the mark in the last job they'd worked together, a Thai gentleman who'd been running a thoroughly shady adoption agency.

"Does knowing this make any difference about whether we take the job?"  Ariadne asked.  She assumed it didn't, since, well, they were all in Buenos Aires.

Arthur confirmed her suspicions.  "No. I just wanted to know what our friend's stake in all of this was."

"Same as my stake in any other job, mate.  I want it to succeed.  That's all."

"Just not for the same reasons."  Ariadne quietly laid her statement out.

There was a pause.  "No.  Not for the same reasons."

Ariadne sent Arthur a bright glance, and he could see she was trying very hard not to burst out in questions and excitement and joy.  He stepped in before she could.

"Well then.  Let's get to work."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eames' name: I read Julian in another fic (I don't remember which, I'm sorry!), and I really thought it fit. So that's his name in my little universe.


	4. Conversations with Ariadne

"So, what do you think?"

"Hmm."

"Come on, Arthur, I know you're awake."  She heard him turn towards her despite the dark of the room.

"I was trying  _not_  to think."

"That's as blatant a lie as you've ever told."  She heard him move again, felt his arm settle across her waist beneath the covers.

"Ariadne, why aren't you sleeping?"  His tone was long-suffering, which she thought was rich.  He generally clocked a total of four hours of sleep a night.

"I'm  _trying._   My brain won't turn off.  So, what do you think?" she asked again.

"I think your feet are unbelievably cold.  I think this job is going to go very smoothly.  I think if you make too much of a thing out of this, you're just going to embarrass Eames."  He paused.  "I think I can't believe I just used 'Eames' and 'embarrass' in the same sentence."

She chuckled and scooted closer in the bed so she could lay her frigid toes on his bare ankle.  He jumped in response.

"Jesus, that's what I'm talking about.  It's like you've got ice cubes for feet."

"How long have you known him, anyway?"

He sighed, accepting that neither of them would be sleeping until she'd garnered answers to all of her questions.  "About a decade at this point."

"He's older than you, isn't he?"

Arthur made a sound of assent.  "I've never asked, but I gather his experience with the more criminal aspects of this job date from long before he ever discovered dreaming."

"I got that impression, as well."

"But yes, he'd been in the business for some years before we came into contact, which wasn't long after Dom recruited me.  And no, he's never brought jobs to our attention like this before."  Arthur anticipated her next question, something he'd only gotten more skilled at doing in their time together.  "He either tackled small jobs he could handle on his own or was recruited to work with larger teams, like with Fischer."

"So this is odd for him."

"Very."

"Well."

He waited, and was surprised when she didn't say anything more.  "Well what?"

"Hmm?  Oh, nothing.  I'm just happy for him, you know?  Forming any kind of attachment when you've spent most of your life alone is scary enough, but falling in love is another kind of fear entirely.  Worth it, though."

Deciding to hell with her icy toes, Arthur tugged her closer so he could bury his face in her hair.  "Ariadne."

"Yeah?"

"Are you just about done thinking?"

She smiled and turned so she could reach up and lay her hand on his cheek.  His hair, where it brushed her fingertips, was soft and devoid of the product he favored during the day.  She knew if the light were on, it would be falling over his brow in a way that made him appear rather like a tall, bashful child.  "Why, do you have somewhere to be?"

"Not exactly."  He turned his head so he was nuzzling the soft skin next to her eye.

Her breath came up short.  "What are you doing?"

"Distracting you."  His lips were meandering towards her ear, and a shiver made its way up her spine.

"So I guess we're not sleeping."

His mouth was moving slowly down her neck.  He paused just over the spot that he knew always drove her crazy and held there, let her feel his breath as he exhaled once, twice, and then a third time.  "No."  Then his mouth was on hers, hot and fierce, and neither of them said anything else for a long time.

* * *

A shadow fell across her desk, and Ariadne lifted her x-acto knife from where she'd had it pressed and glanced up.  Eames stood surveying her partially constructed model, his hands in his pocket, posture loose.  "Looks good."

"You should tell her."

The tense pause informed her without her looking back up that Eames had abandoned his relaxed pose.  "Ah, we're having this conversation, are we?"

She laid her knife down and smiled up at him.  "You knew it was coming. Has Arthur gone out?"  They appeared to be the only ones in the room.

"You really do get absorbed in your work, don't you?  He's out tailing our mark.  Which he announced as he left."

"Did he? Then he knows I probably didn't hear him."

"It really works for you, huh?"

He seemed to be focused on where her knife rested on the table next to her hand.  "My…knife?"

"What?"  He looked up.  "No, you and Arthur.  The thing you two have."

"Oh!  Yes.  Yes, it really does.  Julian, sit down.  You're giving me a crick in my neck."

He considered it, then pulled over the closest chair, which happened to be the one from Arthur's desk, and settled into it.

"It wasn't automatically easy.  We're both only kids, you know?  I've been an orphan for over half my life.  He had this crazy, never-in-one-place-more-than-a-month lifestyle for almost a decade.  We were used to being alone, or guests in someone else's home.  No matter how much you love someone, it's tough to go from that extreme to happily ever after.  Not that we've got happily ever after now, but…you know what I mean."

Eames said nothing, and continued gazing ahead of himself, towards the window, as his chair was angled slightly away from her.

"There was a period of adjustment that sometimes felt we were both banging our heads against each other's ingrained habits.  I'd be lying if I said we didn't almost give it up and walk away more than once.  But we're both also pretty damn stubborn."

Eames snorted out what might have been a laugh, but otherwise said nothing.

"Julian."  She leaned forward to place her hand over one of his.  She waited until he consented to meet her gaze.  "What you've chosen to do with your life isn't the easiest thing for someone who's never heard of dreaming to wrap their head around.  You know that.  But having someone you care about, who cares about you?  Having a place to come home to, a routine to fall into, a goddamn cat with the brain of a pickle?  It is  _so worth it._  It's scary as all hell, but if you care about Anuli, if you want more than whatever relationship you have now, you need to tell her the truth.  Unless…you don't think she wouldn't understand?"

"No.  No, she's as sharp as your knife there.  It's not her I'm worried about."

Ariadne squeezed his hand with hers.  "Well, I'm not. Worried about you, that is."

He smiled at her.  "No?"

"No.  Tell Anuli that if she needs to talk to someone who was recently in her shoes, confronted with an impossible world she'd never conceived of, to give me a call.  You always know how to contact us."

"Thanks, Ari.  I should have done this months ago."

"You should have.  But you are merely a man, and men are subject to their own tragic limitations."  She lowered her voice conspiratorially.  "It took Arthur six months to kiss me outside of a dream, you know."

Eames started to laugh, then stopped as her words sunk in.  "Wait— _outside_  of a dream?  You're talking about Fischer, aren't you?"

Arthur chose that moment to return to the unfinished loft they were using as a workspace.  "Something wrong with your chair, Eames?"  He strode over to Eames' desk to grab the single unoccupied seat in the space and drag it back to his desk.

Eames was still looking at Ariadne.  She saw the devilish glint enter his eyes and slumped down in her own chair.  "Hell," she mumbled.

"So I hear our point man wasn't quite as all-work-and-no-play as he wanted us to think, hmm?"  He purred as he crossed the room.

"What?"  Arthur's voice was the definition of nonplussed.

Ariadne decided it was a perfect time to take a stroll around the block.  Grabbing her green cardigan off the back of her chair, she slipped out the door, smiling to herself.  She'd catch hell for it later, but decided that Arthur's momentary peace of mind was an acceptable sacrifice if it offered Eames a little distraction.

* * *

A week later, Arthur's late night prediction was confirmed when the extraction went off without a hitch.  Ariadne sat out the actual extraction, but was on hand to distribute clean gauze and put away the PASIV when Eames and Arthur came out of it.  Their mark, Domingo Sosa, had made the whole process ridiculously easy by falling asleep while lounging by the pool in his backyard before they'd even arrived.

As they drove away from Senór Sosa's country home and back towards the city, Eames commented that it was almost sad for someone to have such a laughably weak subconscious.

"We can't all be soldiers of the mind." was Arthur's comment.

"Slimy worm of a man," commented Ariadne.  "It never occurred to anyone that the director of a non-profit could never afford digs like that?"

"He could have been independently wealthy," mused Eames.

"He's not."  This from Arthur.  They all knew it, of course, as Arthur would never have sent a team into a job, even one as simple as this one, without being confident they knew all the facts.  There may have been extenuating circumstances surrounding many of the mistakes made on the Fischer job, but Arthur had become even more careful in reaction regardless.  Eames teased him about it, of course, but it kept them all safe.

"You headed straight back to Paris?"

Ariadne looked at Eames in surprise.  They'd worked several jobs together in the past two years, and he'd never before inquired after any of their post-job plans.  Before she could come up with a response, Arthur stepped in.

"After a pit stop in Peru."

She whipped her eyes to meet his in the car's rearview mirror.  "Really?"

She couldn't see his mouth, but his eyes were smiling.  "Since we're on the continent and all."

She grinned in response, then turned to regard the back of Eames' head.  "Where are you headed?"

He cleared his throat.  "I'm going to Paris myself, actually."

"Oh?" The back of his head moved as he nodded.  "Well, maybe we'll see you there."

"Maybe."

Because she couldn't seem to help herself, she reached out to give his shoulder a squeeze.  The back of his head nodded again.


	5. Tis the Season for Slush

Their first Christmas together had been a little awkward.  They'd been dating for 6 months, but Ariadne still lived full-time in Paris while Arthur jumped around.  They were together when he was in France to visit or when they were on a job.  Neither had much experience with family gatherings, and Ariadne, while she knew Arthur was planning on being in Paris over the holidays, wasn't sure what to expect of either of them.  When Arthur proposed a skiing trip to the Swiss Alps, she'd leapt at it like a man in a desert goes after a spring.  They'd exchanged small gifts, but other than that had in no way celebrated.

Back in France at Stephen Miles' home on the outskirts of Paris for the Epiphany dinner, Phillipa Cobb had been aghast to hear how they'd spent their holiday.  "No  _tree?"_  she gasped.

"There are lots of trees in Switzerland."

Phillipa had been unmoved by Arthur's response.  "But where did Santa put your presents?"

Ariadne stepped in.  "You know, Santa's a pretty creative guy. When we got to the hotel, there were presents in my suitcase that I'm  _positive_  I didn't pack."

"Really?" This from James.

"Really."

Ariadne was having this conversation on the floor where the kids had spread out construction paper and crayons.  Sitting nearby, Dom turned to Arthur.  "If they demand Santa deliver them presents in suitcases next year, you're both in trouble."

Arthur kept his gaze directed to the crowd of three clustered on the floor by the fire.  "I don't see how I could possibly be blamed for that."

"You just had to go after her."

Arthur took this comment with a grain of salt, since not seven months earlier, Dom had advised him to do that very thing.  "I guess I did."

The next year found them getting settled into their new flat.  One of their new neighbors gifted them with a Yule log, but they weren't sure whether their lovely fireplace actually connected to a working chimney, so it sat unlit in the hearth.  Ariadne hung a wreath on the door, but a rather large job had presented itself in the week before Christmas, and both were consumed in preparations for it.  On Christmas Eve, Arthur had fished a tiny, shivering ball of fur out of the building's trash bin, and they'd both spent the next month locating the kitten whenever he got himself lost in the flat.  Ariadne couldn't even recall whether, unexpected cat aside, they'd actually exchanged gifts.

But this year was going to be different.  When the boxes Arthur had had stored in Arizona finally arrived in Paris in February, they'd discovered that at some point his mother had added the family's old Christmas decorations to his storage unit and never mentioned it to him.  There were strings of burned-out lights and a sprig of mistletoe that some unfortunate rodent had devoured at some point, but Ariadne was most thrilled with the box of ornaments.  There were glass balls, painted wooden figures, and even a bit of clay on a string that a small Arthur had pressed his thumb to, leaving a print for posterity.  Comparing it to his much larger hands, Ariadne had trouble imagining him ever being that size.

They were sitting before the hearth, which held yet another Yule log, which they knew for certain they'd be able to burn this year, sifting through the boxes of decorations.  Arthur had warned that much of it would need to be thrown out, and he was of course correct, but the occasional treasure they uncovered made the whole process worth it.

Ariadne surveyed the pile of tinsel in her lap uncertainly.  "What do you think, is this worth saving? Or should we just buy some ribbon and use that?"  When Arthur didn't respond, she looked up to find him sitting very still, looking at something hidden in his hand.  She considered briefly, then shoved the tinsel off her lap and walked over to peer over his shoulder.

He was holding a very small, very tarnished silver frame that held a faded photo of a handsome young couple.

Ariadne knelt behind him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.  "They look so happy."

He jolted slightly, then relaxed.  "They were. It's been so long since I've seen their faces."

Ariadne continued to look at the photo.  The woman was laughing up at her companion, wearing a bright red ribbon in her curly brown hair.  The man, considerably taller than she was, was gazing down at her with a soft smile that Ariadne recognized as very like the one his son occasionally wore.  "Was it taken at Christmas?"

Arthur nodded.  "They got engaged at Christmas, actually.  This is from their first together after their wedding."

Ariadne sighed happily.  "That's really lovely."

"This was her favourite ornament.  Even after he died, she'd set it aside while she decorated.  She'd polish it, and it would be the last thing she hung before the star went on top."  He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.  "I always had to do that part."

Ariadne nodded solemnly.  "You'll probably have to do it this year, too.  Apparently the men in your family go for short ladies."

"It makes us feel like big, strong brutes."

Ariadne laughed, and turned her head so she could press a kiss to his cheek.  "Come on, manly man.  I've got a silver polishing cloth stashed somewhere."

 

* * *

 

The tree had gone up over the weekend, draped with red ribbon and hung with Arthur's mother's motley collection of ornaments.  Gifts were appearing at its base one by one, and a constant battle was being waged to keep Crash distracted from what was apparently a biological imperative to climb Christmas trees.  Fortunately, Crash was easy to distract.

Ariadne didn't have any Christmas-related objects from before her parents had died, but she did have memories, her favourite of which was baking Christmas cookies with her mother.  So, after finding a recipe for sugar cookies online, she'd donned an apron, gathered the ingredients, and plunged into the memories.

Arthur had been out all morning, and returned to find her thus engaged.  She was wearing worn jeans and a green top with ruffles on the front, sleeves pushed to her elbows, underneath an apron decorated with huge Poinsettia flowers, which he recognized as having been his mother's.  Her hair had been braided in two plaits and pinned to the back of her head in what appeared to be an attempt to keep it out of her way, but strands had come loose around her face.  Her cheeks were streaked with flour, as was much of the rest of her.

"You look like you belong in a house on the prairie somewhere."

She glanced back over her shoulder with a smile.  "Hello, dear.  I suppose that would make you my burly mountain man?  Have you killed us a bear for supper?"

"Not exactly.  I did get some wine, though."

"Oh, goody."  She looked down at her floury hands ruefully.  "I forgot to check how many cookies this recipe made.  I think I'm going to be rolling and cutting dough for eternity."

"Want some help?"

Her smile was bright and delighted.  "Do you have time?"

"Let me put some things away."

When he came back, he'd removed his suit coat, but left his waistcoat and tie.  The sleeves of his dress shirt were rolled to his elbows.  Strains of unfamiliar music floated into the room after him.

"Is that…Dean Martin?"

He nodded.  "Mom had apparently stored their Christmas albums separate from the rest of Dad's collection."

Ariadne smiled at Dean's faint protestations of "Baby, it's cold outside!" and scooted over to make room for Arthur at the counter.  "It's perfect. How did you know?"

He grabbed a reindeer-shaped cookie cutter and pressed it precisely into the dough she'd rolled out before them.  "I know everything."

"Ah, yes. Of course."  She moved her hips to the beat of the music as they worked, applying cookie cutters of various shapes and sizes to the dough, and then shifting the shapes onto parchment-covered cookie sheets.  When the sheets were in the oven and the timer set, Ariadne turned to see Arthur leaning against the counter, regarding her with a look she couldn't quite interpret.  His clothes were devoid of flour, which seemed rather unfair to her when she knew that she was covered in it.

Dean still crooned in the background, having moved on to chestnuts roasting over an open fire.  Humming to herself, Ariadne turned to regard the mess she'd made of their kitchen.

"Leave it for the moment."

She thought she must have misheard him.  "What, seriously?"  Arthur wasn't usually one to leave a mess.

"Yeah. Come here."  Ariadne approached him with an expression that clearly said she couldn't decide if he was kidding or not.  The strings on the apron were so long around her slim frame that Ariadne had wrapped them around her back and then tied them in front.  Arthur reached out and worked the knot loose, then lifted the flour-covered garment over her head.  He laid it on the counter, then took her hard in his.  "Dance with me."

"I—what?"  Ariadne let herself be towed out of the kitchen and into the living room, where the music was louder.  The song shifted to "The Christmas Waltz."  He wasn't…but he was.  Arthur was actually waltzing with her.  She briefly recalled once finding the idea of Arthur waltzing to be humorous.  It was anything but.  He was leading her around the room with the ease of someone who was utterly confident in the steps his feet were taking.

She realized with a sort of vague distance that she was probably getting flour on his suit, but couldn't muster the motivation to do anything about it.  "Okay, this is all I want for Christmas.  You can take everything else back."

A laugh rumbled in his chest.  "No."

She leaned her head back to smile up at him.  "Well, alright then. If you insist."

He moved to hold their clasped hands against his chest, and shifted her closer by slightly increasing the pressure of his other hand at the small of her back.  The steps of the dance made it difficult to go on her tiptoes and close the distance between their respective mouths, but she managed it.

When he raised his head, the song had ended, and the record player was emitting the sound that indicated the record had also reached its end.  Ariadne leaned her head forward so she could press her ear against his chest.  His heartbeat was reassuring, but gratifyingly unsteady.  She loved that they could still thrill each other with kisses.  He idly played with the strands of hair that had escaped her braids and ignored the scratchy sounds the record player was making.

"Do we have icing for decorating the cookies?"

She snuggled closer into his chest, for no other reason than because it was there, before answering him.  "Going to make some tonight.  Cobb's bringing the kids over tomorrow after they get into town.  Professor Miles has a class, and apparently Santa's not quite done shopping.  So I volunteered to entertain them."

"What time are they getting here?"

"Three, I think he said."  She leaned back to meet his gaze.  "You've got that thing tomorrow afternoon, don't you?"

He quirked an eyebrow at her description, but answered in the affirmative.  The thing she was referring to was a meeting about a potential job.  It had come from a relatively new contact, someone who was an associate-of-an-associate of Saito's, and Arthur was approaching it carefully.  He'd mentioned to Ariadne that something about the whole thing felt a little off, but on the surface it was above-board.  Just your average corporate espionage job.

"Be careful, okay?"

"I'll be fine."

"I know.  Be careful anyway.  Listen to your gut.  If something feels wrong, just get out of there."

He tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear.  "I'll be careful."

Ariadne wasn't satisfied, but knew it was all she was going to get from him.  "I'd hate to have to return all your lovely presents."

"I'll keep that in mind."

The buzzer on the oven went off, indicating it was time to remove the cookies.  Ariadne pulled away from Arthur.  "I'll get them.  The dishes, too.  You've got stuff to get together for tomorrow."

He started to reach up to rub away some flour that stayed stubbornly streaked across her cheek, but dropped his hand into his pocket to touch the die that rested there instead.  "Thanks."

* * *

After her relationship with Arthur and learning what it was like to design worlds within dreams, James and Phillipa Cobb were Ariadne's favourite thing that being recruited to work the Fischer job had brought into her life.  In the two years she'd known them, she'd watched the kids' personalities form with delight.

Phillipa had been reserved at first; with a tendency to shoot Cobb nervous glances, as if determining that he was, in fact, still where he said he'd be.  At seven, she'd gradually grown out of it, but had maintained a quiet sort of thoughtfulness.  She was the sort of child who would stand at the edge of a room and take in everyone in it before entering and involving herself.  But once she set her mind to something, almost nothing could dissuade her from her chosen path.  It was a trait she shared with her father, and Ariadne was looking forward to watching the sparks fly when she hit her teenage years with a sort of perverse glee.

James, who'd been two when his mother had died, and three when Cobb was finally able to return, retained no memories of either Mal or Cobb's absence.  It was sad, and Cobb made an effort to talk about his late wife often, including her in their kids' lives, but she would only ever be someone in stories to James.  The upside of the situation was that James was an unapologetically happy child.  His personality was not unlike a helium-filled balloon that refused to deflate.  He had none of Phillipa's reserve, threw himself into things whole-heartedly, and was as apt to change his mind as Phillipa was determined never to.

They were as different as night and day, these kids, and extremely close despite their differences.  The one thing that had completely in common, however, was a need to create.  It was something that both Cobb and Mal had passed down, and neither child was happier than when they were drawing or building or imagining.

Decorating Christmas cookies with them was as much fun as Ariadne had thought it would be.  Phillipa's cookies were decorated with precision and James' with abandon, but both used a wide array of colors without feeling the need to restrict themselves to things that actually occurred in nature.  When Ariadne inquired after Phillipa's decision to create a race of blue reindeer, she was answered with a well-thought-out explanation of how living at the North Pole would affect the shades of reindeer fur.

After finishing the cookies and setting them aside to dry, they settled down in the living room to torture the cat (who adored every minute of it) and discuss the trials and tribulations of kindergarten and second grade.  The hour Ariadne was expecting Arthur back came and went, and she frowned at the clock while listening with one ear to James describe the painting he'd made and his father had gotten framed as a Christmas gift for his grandmother.  She had the greatest faith in Arthur's abilities, but it was in her nature to be concerned and curious.  However, since there was nothing she could do at the moment but wait, she asked the kids if they wanted to help her deliver plates of cookies to her neighbors.

They each set aside their favourite of the cookies to take home to their father and grandfather, then the kids separated the remaining selection into piles on brightly colored paper plates.  James only seemed to care about distributing the greatest variety of colors and textures, while Phillipa peppered Ariadne with questions about her neighbors so they would receive cookies best suited to them (Yes, but had Ariadne ever actually seen Monsieur Fontaine  _build_  a snowman?  How could she be sure that he liked them if she hadn't?).  Ariadne did make sure that Madame Desmarais was given a serving more than the other neighbors, as she was the one who always looked after Crash while they were out of town.

An hour later, Ariadne, James, and Phillipa waved  _au revoir_  to the tenant on the building's top floor, leaving behind yet another person charmed and enchanted by the two towheaded children with their pretty French accents.  She'd been positive that Arthur would be home when they returned, but found the flat empty save for the cat, who had actually managed to get halfway up the Christmas tree, and was stuck.  After disentangling him from the spiky boughs and setting the kids up with paper and markers, she finally found the text message.  In typical Arthur fashion, it was terse, to the point, and provided absolutely none of the information she actually wanted.  "Running late," it stated.  "Will grab dinner on the way home."

Ariadne scowled at the phone in her hand, willing it to reveal more.  "I can tell that you're late, you stupid man.   _What happened?"_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ariadne's cat-sitting neighbor is named after my high school French teacher, who I wouldn't have trusted with a goldfish, let alone a cat. I'm giving her a new life in this story. A new, nice life.
> 
> Next chapter is something different. I'm still wary of writing action, but you're totally going to get some Dom/Arthur bonding. You want that, right? I hope so. I'm laboring under the impression that everyone wants that.


	6. Bleeding, Kissing, and a Cat in a Tree

Dom Cobb was peering at a display of dolls in a toyshop, attempting to distinguish between the subtle variations in shades of pink sequins, when his phone rang.  Expecting either his father-in-law or Ariadne, who was watching his kids, he frowned at the unknown number.  Very few people knew his number, and the call was coming from somewhere in Paris, so he abandoned the dolls, stepped outside the shop, and answered.

"I need your help."

Dom frowned.  "Arthur?  What's going on?"

"Can you meet me somewhere?  I can't go back to the apartment in the state I'm in."

He might have been out of the game, but Dom hadn't forgotten the dangers inherent in it, or everything he owed Arthur.  He started down the sidewalk, scanning the road for a cab as he went.  "Can you get to the warehouse we used before?"

"Yeah."  The word was short, and Dom heard a quiet rustling over the line.  "Can you bring a first aid kit?"

"Got it. See you in ten."  Dom spotted a pharmacy up ahead and lengthened his stride.

* * *

It wasn't hard for Arthur to reach the warehouse without drawing attention, partially because his meeting hadn't been far away, and partially because his jacket hid the worst of the bleeding.  The garment was ruined now, as was the rest of what he was wearing aside from his shoes, a fact that bothered him more than the hole in his arm did.

He was crouched next to a trash can in the alley next to the warehouse when Dom found him.  He took one look at Arthur's face and winced.

"I'd say you're a sight for sore eyes, but…"

"You're a riot, Dom."

He gestured with the hand holding the first aid kit.  "Let's get you inside."

They hadn't been back inside the warehouse since they departed for Sydney in pursuit of Robert Fischer, but the men found it surprisingly unchanged.  There were perhaps a few more birds in residence than before, but beyond that it resembled the space they'd walked away from nearly 3 years before.

Arthur pealed off his jacket and waistcoat and loosened his tie so he could pull his shirt to the side and peer at the damage to his left arm.  From what he could see, the bullet had just nicked him.

Dom had balanced the kit on a wide windowsill and was unwrapping packets of gauze.  He glanced at the wound on his old friend's arm.  "Tell me again why we're not doing this in the comfort of your lovely apartment?"

Arthur didn't look up from where he was attempting to blot some of the blood away with his ruined shirt.  "I was under the impression you wouldn't have been crazy about bringing my bruised and bleeding self into your kids' cozy afternoon of cookie decorating."

Dom paused in his actions.  "Ah.  Yes.  Good thought."

Arthur started to smirk, then abruptly remembered that his face was also battered.  "Anything you can use to clean it in there?"

"Yeah."  Dom approached him wielding a small bottle.  "It's going to hurt."

"Christ, Dom, just pour it on there."

Dom shrugged, and then poured away.  He pretended not to hear Arthur's quick hiss of pain.  He used gauze to blot more blood away from the wound so he could get a closer look.  "Oh yeah, that's nothing.  You'll be fine."  He poured a little of the liquid on a square of gauze and handed it to Arthur so he could continue to blot while Dom inspected the wounds on his face.  "So what was this about, anyway?"

Arthur grunted.  "Thug who wasn't aware that extractors are allowed to turn down jobs they don't like the look of."

"How'd you find this one?"

"It came from a guy Saito knows."

Dom raised his eyebrows . "Saito needs to find better friends."

"You're telling me.   _Ow._   Be careful, will you?"

Dom pulled back from where he'd been cleaning the ugly gash that ran down the left side of his face.  "I thought you wanted to look beautiful for your girlfriend."

"Mostly I was concerned with not dripping blood."

"Ah."  Dom stepped back and turned to dig a longer roll of gauze out of the kit.  "Here."  Arthur raised his arm so that Dom could start to wrap the white material around his bicep.  "How's she going to react?"

Arthur grimaced.  "It's not going to be pretty."

Dom barked a short laugh.  "Good luck with that.  There, that should keep you."

Arthur looked down at his hastily wrapped arm and nodded.  It wasn't ideal, but it would do.  He shrugged back into the bloody shirt and buttoned it up, then tightened his tie.  The waistcoat and jacket went back on, as well.  He looked down at himself.  "I  _liked_  this suit."

"Well, you look unmaimed for the most part, anyway.  I'll call a cab."

Arthur nodded, then threw all of the bloody gauze back into the kit box and shut it.  He'd toss it when he got home.  He found Dom waiting on the curb outside, whistling to himself.  "Just like old times, huh?"

Dom clapped him on the shoulder in response.

" _Ow._ "

* * *

Ariadne was playing "Sketch On Command," a game James had made up about an hour earlier and promptly lost interest in.  Phillipa picked up the thread, however, and Ariadne had been illustrating a race of enormously tall dragon people at the little girl's instructions ever since.  As each drawing was finished, it was handed over to Phillipa, who then considered carefully before writing the individual dragon's name in precise letters across the bottom of the sketch.  She had graciously allowed her little brother to help her color them  (Justine Elizabeth Winters was blue-scaled with green teeth and a pink dress, while Joseph Elephantface Johnson had brown scales, purple wings, and red high-top sneakers), but he had apparently wandered off somewhere.

Ariadne glanced around the flat and located the boy crouched behind the Christmas tree with one fist wrapped around Crash's tail.  "Hey James, that might not be such a good idea—" but Crash responded to the attention by flopping onto his back and purring so loudly the two girls could hear it across the room.  "Nevermind, I guess he likes it."

"Your cat is super weird, Ariadne."  Phillipa had recently taking to using what she thought of as her "grown-up voice" and Ariadne got a kick out of it.

"Your  _face_  is super weird, Phillipa."

The girl giggled.  "Your…your  _toes_  are weird!"

"Your  _earlobes_  are the weirdest earlobes in the history of the world."

Phillipa's hands automatically flew to her ears.  "No way!   _Your_  earlobes are weirder!"

Ariadne paused in her sketching to lean towards the girl.  "You know whose earlobes are the super duper weirdest?" she asked in a loud whisper.

Phillipa leaned in too, and whispered in response, "Whose?"

Glancing left and then right, as if making sure no one could hear them, Ariadne continued, "Uncle Arthur's!"

Phillipa gasped and then collapsed in giggles.  For some reason, any mention of Arthur was making her laugh today, so Ariadne was dropping his name at every opportunity.  It wasn't distracting her from worrying about him, but it was amusing the girl, at least.

Ariadne looked back down at her sketch.  "So what do you think of this one?"  She angled the paper so that Phillipa could see it.  "He looks a little like a Ferguson to me, but—" the sound of the front door opening distracted her attention and her gaze whipped up.

Two men entered the room, and James shot towards them and was in the air before Ariadne could even register their identities.

"Uncle Arthur!"  He flew at the taller man, who caught him reflexively, then stiffened.  Ariadne watched as his face went very, very pale.

"What's wrong?"  She dropped her sketchpad and stood, stepping around the couch.

Phillipa had gone up on her knees and was leaning her crossed arms on the sofa back, which faced the flat's entryway.  She gave her father a little wave, "Hi, Daddy."

"Hey, baby."  Cobb was trying to pry his son's arms from around his former partner's neck.  "Why don't you come over here, Buddy? Uncle Arthur's not feeling too well."

James pulled back to look at Arthur's face . "What's wrong with Uncle Arthur?"

"Yes, what's wrong with Uncle Arthur?"  Ariadne, who had stopped about six feet away, echoed the boy.

"Is it the scratch on your face that hurts?  Or your weird earlobes?"  James inquired, then leaned up to press his lips to said scratch, as if trying to cover all the boo-boo bases.  Arthur, whose eyes hadn't left Ariadne since they entered the room, tried very hard not to wince.

Cobb managed to loosen James' death grip on his friend and was pulling him away.  "What do earlobes have to do with anything?"

"What's wrong with Uncle Arthur?" Ariadne asked again.

Cobb had regain possession of his son, and held a hand out towards his daughter.  "Come on guys, it's time to go.  Your grandmére made dinner."

Phillipa gathered her dragon people and headed towards her father.  "Wait! Daddy, what about our cookies?"

Cobb glanced at Arthur and Ariadne, still standing frozen.  "Okay, go grab them, but be quick.  You know how Grandmére gets when we keep her waiting."  James wriggled out of his arms to run after his sister, leaving Cobb with an armful of colored dragon people.

Ariadne walked up to Arthur and laid her hand on his cheek over the angry red scratch.  Arthur briefly closed his eyes and laid his hand over hers, then headed towards the bedroom.  Ariadne watched him go.

"Ariadne, there's take-out in the entry.  Thanks again for watching the kids," Cobb called as he ushered his progeny towards the exit.  He paused at the door and lowered his voice a little.  "It's really not that bad, just a little jarring to see outside a dream.  Give him a chance to explain before you kill him."  Then he was gone, and the sounds of the kids' voices faded with the sound of the door shutting.

* * *

Ariadne could hear Arthur in the bathroom, sifting through the medicine cabinet from the sound of it.  Her heart had stopped for a moment at the sight of the bloody shirt in the bedroom trash, but then she recalled Cobb's words.  She knocked lightly on the door, opening it at Arthur's distracted "Yeah.  Come in."

He was standing shirtless before the sink, unwrapping the bloody gauze from around his arm.  His bicep flexed slightly in what was probably pain, but Ariadne knew he wouldn't say anything.

"You actually brought dinner."

"Said I would."

"You also said you'd be careful."

He paused and glanced up to meet her eyes in the mirror.  They were suspiciously bright.  "I was."

Ariadne sniffed loudly, determined to keep at bay the tears that desperately wanted to fall.  She'd been so goddamned  _worried_  about him.  He was still unwrapping the gauze, and she stepped forward.  "Here, let me.  It'll be easier with two hands."

He handed her the end of it.  "Thanks."

The room fell silent aside for the soft  _shush_  of the gauze.  Ariadne's gaze was on Arthur's arm, his was on the top of her head.  Pealing aside the final layer of white material, Ariadne sucked in a breath.  "Jesus, Arthur, what did you do?"

"Well, I didn't shoot myself in the arm, if that's what you're worried about."

She flashed him a speaking glance, but said nothing and reached for a washcloth.  She soaked it in lukewarm water and added soap.  Suds dripped on their feet as she gently washed away the dried blood.

"You're a lot nicer about this than Dom was."

The hand holding the washcloth paused slightly.  Ariadne sniffed once, then a second time.

Arthur frowned.  "Hey."  She was standing so close that he couldn't see her face.  When she didn't look up at him, he reached out and tilted her chin up with his right hand.  Her eyes were fierce, but one tear had escaped, and a second was welling.  "Hey.  I'm okay."

She frowned mightily.  " _I_  know that.  You're the expert.  The man with the plan."  She laughed, a mirthless sound.

"Ari, what's really wrong?"

He thought at first she wasn't going to answer.  She moved to stand slightly to his side and resumed her gentle washing, then plucked a towel off the counter to pat his arm dry.  "I was worried about you.  I didn't know where you were or what was happening.  All I knew was that you had a bad feeling about the whole thing and walked into it regardless."  His arm was dry, so she reached for the anti-biotic ointment.

"I always do these things on my own."

"You didn't when you worked with Cobb."

"Well…no."  He frowned as a thought occurred to him.  "Ari, you're not saying you want me to bring you along, are you?"

"No."  Her answer came quickly and he believed her.  "No, I know I'd be out of place.  I may have learned to handle myself against projections, but in the real world I'd be a liability.  I know that."

"Good."  He turned so he could see her face again, and tucked a lock of hair behind her ear.  "You  _have_  gotten good against projections, but I'd be distracted looking out for you and it would keep me from doing my job."

"I know."  She was refusing to meet his gaze again, but her touch where she applied the ointment was gentle.  "Hand me fresh gauze, will you?"  He did, and she rewrapped his arm.

"You do a better job of that than Dom, too."

"Good to know."  She stepped around him to lower the lid on the toilet, then gestured that he should sit down.  "You're too damn tall."  Rinsing out the washcloth and reapplying soap, she began the procedure again for the gashes on his face.  "You look like you ran into a brick wall."

"I basically did."

"Jeez.  What happened, anyway?"

He repeated what he'd told Dom.  "I told him we weren't interested and to find another extractor.  He didn't take too kindly to hearing it."

"Why'd you turn him down?"

"The whole thing was just dirty.  I wouldn't have taken this job even before I hooked up with a moralist."  She smiled a little at that.  "If it were just a matter of getting information from a competitor that would have been one thing, but this guy wanted his competition destroyed.  It was malicious, and more than we generally do on a job, anyway.  Plus he wanted to send men in with us."

"And we don't do tourists."

"No.  Saito was a special case, and we know how well that turned out."

"We've got a billionaire who sends us Christmas cards, which you've got to admit is kind of neat."

"There is that, I suppose."

Ariadne had finished applying ointment and was pressing butterfly bandages to the larger scratches.  "You'll probably have some great bruises tomorrow."  She ran a finger along one of the butterfly bandages, smoothing it.

Arthur took her hand and pressed his lips to her palm.  "Come here."  He stretched out his legs and balanced his feet on the edge of the bathtub, then tugged her into his lap.

"I'll hurt you."

"Nah."  He pulled her closer and wrapped his arms around her waist.  "Manly man, remember?"

"Mmmmm."  Ariadne ran a fingertip over the gauze wrapped around his left bicep.

He buried his face in her hair, pressing a kiss just over her ear.  "You okay?"

"I'm not the one who tangoed with gun-toting thugs and kissed a brick wall with his face."

He chuckled.  "No.  But you know what I mean."

"How long have we been together, Arthur?"

He thought.  "About two and a half years."

"So why am I still not used to worrying about someone else?  Shouldn't I have grown accustomed to it at this point?"

"I don't know.  It really bothers you?"

"It does.  I mean, ninety percent of our lives I don't even think about it.  I forget about the…well, the criminal aspect of some of what we do.  In the dreams, I'm concerned for your safety, but I know you'll be fine.  Though I do like knowing that Eames is there with you."

"That makes one of us."

She elbowed him gently.  "Be honest, you rely on him."

"Just between us, yes.  I do.  He's a scary son of a bitch when he wants to be.  Good fellow to have your back in a brawl."

"See? There you go."

"So what happened today?"

"You knew that the thing had a good potential to go sideways, but you walked into it anyways."

"I brought an extra gun."

She leaned back to bump her head against his.  "I have more faith in you than I've ever had in anyone in my life.  Which means that I trust your instincts as much as I trust your abilities.  Knowing you were suspicious of the situation made me suspicious of it and it all combined into a mass of dread."  She turned her head slightly so she could see his eyes.  "That doesn't mean you should stop telling me when you've got a bad feeling.  I'd rather be worried than ignorant."

"I know.  We could just be choosier with our jobs."

"It's easy to say that, but you like to work and so do I.  So long as we stay in the game, we're not going to be able to avoid run-ins like today's.  It seemed legitimate to start with, after all."

"Yeah.  So, what would you like to do?"  He reached up to lay a hand on her cheek and used it to turn her face to his until their noses were touching.  "Ariadne.  Tell me what I can do to make this easier for you."

She smiled, though it was tinged with sadness, and leaned forward to kiss him lightly.  "Nothing.  I've got to learn to deal with it.  Though we should try and ensure that there aren't kids near me the next time.  I did a lot of shouting and cursing in my head."

"Noted."

She laid her head on his shoulder, then realized, somewhat dimly, that they were cuddling in the bathroom.  Sitting on the toilet.  And she was actually really hungry.  "You feel like eating?"

"Sure."

"What'd you bring us?"

"Thai."

"Oh, yum."  Standing, Ariadne collected the bits of gauze which had been discarded around the sink and tossed them in the trash.  She opened the medicine cabinet to replace the items they'd removed, then tossed him a bottle of pain killers.

"Thanks."

"Were you planning on putting a shirt on?"

"Some thought of it had entered my mind, yes."

"Well, there's no need to put yourself out on my account."

He smirked, but pulled a sweater out of the dresser and—in a rare disregard for his usual dress code—pulled it over his head without first putting on either shirt of tie.

Ariadne stared. "Whoa."

"What?"

"That look really shouldn't be as sexy as it is."

Now he smiled widely and seemed about to respond when a forlorn cry came from the next room.  "The cat's in the tree again."

Ariadne sighed.  "So it would seem."

He laughed ruefully.  "Well, let's go rescue the beast, then."  He accompanied her out of the bedroom with a hand laid on the small of her back.

Halfway to the tree, she whirled suddenly and threw her arms around his neck. It hurt, but he said nothing and hugged her tightly to him.

"I really, really, really love you," she said to his neck.

He bent to bury his face in her hair.  "I love you, too."

She laughed as she pulled back, wiping away an errant tear with the back of one hand.  "Okay.  That's done.  Go fish our idiotic feline out of the Christmas tree.  I'll reheat dinner."

He reached up to rest one hand on her cheek, moving his thumb lightly over her cheekbone.  Before she could blink, he'd leaned in and captured her lips in a fierce kiss.  Opening her lips under his, she curled her fingers into the soft cashmere of his sweater.  His hand was halfway up her back underneath her blouse and dinner all but forgotten when an indignant yowl brought them back to themselves.

She uncurled her fingers and smoothed them down the front of his sweater.  "You do that really well."

His thumb was back to stroking her cheekbone.  "Thank you for worrying about me.  I can't remember the last time someone did.  It's…" he trailed off and shook his head, out of words.  "Thank you."

"Anytime, superman."  She grinned cheekily.  "Do you think you can keep your hands off me long enough for us to eat dinner and feed the cat?"

"It will be a struggle," he said solemnly, "but yes."

"I'll make it worth your while."

His eyes, dark and deep-set in a scratched and bruised face, flashed dangerously.  "Eat fast."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow. This is a good thousand words longer than I thought it would be. It is also surprisingly equal parts kissing and bleeding. I made an effort to keep Ariadne from falling into a stereotypical weepy female role, since I think she's tougher than that, and to keep myself from writing a "Character A is angry because Character B did not call and therefore does not love them" sort of conflict. I think I succeeded pretty well. I hope you think so, too!


	7. Lions and Unicorns

Arthur stood on a beach, watching foam-tipped waves crash and feeling the spray on his face.  It wasn't a cosmetically pretty place.  It was scattered with large and small rocks and huge white pieces of driftwood.  He heard the telltale crunch of someone approaching from the forest behind him, but didn't turn.

"Is this where you grew up?"

"No," Ariadne answered, "but it is very close."

"It's beautiful."

"Yes."  He turned so he could see her face as she scanned the shoreline absently, "It is."  She met his eyes.  "Do you ever dream of the desert?"

He shook his head.  "I hate the desert.  But you love it here.  Or there, rather."

She nodded.  "I do."

"So why stay away?"

She gestured with her chin at a spot to Arthur's left.  He turned to study where the shore terminated in a sheer rock wall that extended far above sea level.  "My parents drove their car off a cliff very like that one."

He nodded.  He'd known, of course, it had come up in his initial research and she herself had later told him, but it was a different matter to see it.

"It wasn't nearly so tall, of course.  But I was a kid when it happened, and that colors how I remember the coastline.  They were my parents, they were invincible, so it must have taken something completely extraordinary to kill them."

He laced his fingers through hers.  "Ready to begin?"

Taking a last breath of sea air that he knew wouldn't be  _quite_  what she remembered from her youth, she nodded.  "I set up the range about a hundred yards inland."

They turned from the ocean and walked back into the woods.  If he hadn't already been aware of the dream, the fact that the massive cliff they'd just been discussing, which would have necessitated a drastic increase in elevation just to his right, but was conspicuously absent in the current landscape would have tipped him off.  Clearly Ariadne only ever thought of it from its seaward side, the side from which her parents had plummeted to their deaths.

"Where were they going that night?"

"Home.  It was their anniversary.  Fifteen years.  They were coming home from dinner at the nearest 'fancy' restaurant."  She smirked at him.  "Nothing like what you're used to."  He squeezed her hand once but said nothing.

She stopped and looked to the right, at where the cliff was not.  "They said it was probably the fog that confused him.  My dad was driving."  She started walking again.  "I never really got it.  They grew up here.  I'd driven with them in the fog countless times; they were both always so careful.  But whatever had happened in the past, it killed them that night."  Her voice was dry, unemotional.

"Have you come here in dreams before?"

"Not intentionally.  But my brain brings me here regardless.  It's just up ahead."

They came to a clearing which was inexplicably an indoor shooting range.  Arthur handed her a gun that he had apparently been carrying at the small of his back.  "Here, shoot some things.  It will make you feel better."

"You do know how to talk to a girl, Arthur."

Forty-five minutes later, when the dream fell apart, Ariadne was still riddling things with bullets while Arthur looked on fondly.

* * *

He always seems to come awake faster than she did.  By the time she opened her eyes, he'd removed the needle and had pressed a square of gauze to her wrist.  They were in her office in the flat.  She was lying on the small sofa (and had been joined by Crash at some point, who was purring away happily on her stomach), and Arthur had been sitting in her chair.

Stretching out on the bed would have been far more comfortable, but having seen how wrong a relationship between people who worked in dreams could go firsthand, Ariadne and Arthur were careful to keep things very separate.  They dreamed outside of jobs very rarely, and only then with specific purposes for doing so, like today's target practice.  That Ariadne got to let off some steam and Arthur got to watch his girlfriend shoot things to pieces (which he'd discovered, when they weren't in danger for their lives, was incredibly hot) was just a happy byproduct.

"Do you think I should learn to shoot a gun in real life?"

Arthur paused in the process of stowing the PASIV to consider her question.  He walked over and settled on the edge of the sofa, a cushioned hardwood affair Ariadne had unearthed at one of Paris's famed flea markets and had upholstered in intense green velvet.  She lifted her head slightly so he could sit back and she could rest her head on his thigh.  The cat stretched and made a sound oddly reminiscent of a human child.  The actual humans ignored him.

"I don't think you need to carry a firearm.  But there's nothing wrong with practicing a skill.  If knowing you could shoot a gun in reality with a reasonable degree of accuracy would comfort you, then go for it."

She shifted her head slightly.  "I don't know if comfort is the right word, but…yeah.  It might be a good thing to have in my back pocket.  Just in case I ever need to rescue you."

He smiled, but didn't address the comment.  "I've thought about talking to Eames about it."

"About…rescuing you?  In general, or do you have specific instances in mind already?  Because I'd just as soon we skip those."

"About a partnership.  Like what Dom and I had."

"Oh."  She considered that.  "You wouldn't kill each other?"

"Well, no guarantees there.  But Dom and I didn't always see eye-to-eye on everything, you know.  The difference is that I nearly always deferred to him, but Eames and I are on more equal footing, in terms of experience."

"You  _have_  gotten a lot better about not picking at each other, I'll say that.  And he's been in Paris so often recently."  Eames' lady friend Anuli traveled for work a great deal (they'd met in Africa), but her offices were actually located in France.  Arthur had found himself consulting with Eames on jobs he wasn't actually meant to be involved in several times, just by virtue of his proximity.

"I thought I'd see if he wanted to move forward in a more official capacity rather than just flying in every few jobs."

"You're doing this for me, aren't you?"

He looked down at her and smoothed the hair that had fallen across her brow off of her face.  "Partially.  You got me thinking.  I worked with a partner for nearly ten years.  I do well enough on my own, but it is nice to know that someone has your back.  As irritating as the man is, I trust him.  For some reason."  His eyes met hers then in a wry glance, and she smiled.

"My lips, as always, are sealed."  She sat up, displacing the cat.  "I think I'm going to go for a walk."

He looked towards the room's bay windows, under which her desk sat.  "It's still snowing."

"I know.  Some days, a girl's just got to take a walk in the snow."

* * *

Anuli went to museums and galleries to unwind.  Ariadne went to museums and galleries to sketch.  The discovery that they had some of their favourite haunts in common had been a welcome one.  They actually ran into one another twice entirely by accident—first in the Musée d'Orsay and next in the Musée Rodin—before deciding to arrange a meet-up.

At first glance, it wasn't hard to see what had attracted Eames to Anuli.  She had an unusual freckled caramel complexion and long flame red hair, which she usually wore in a braid.  She had a quietly serious countenance and smiled rarely, though Ariadne knew it was not from a lack of willingness to do so.  The overall impression she gave was one of a cool, stylish Parisian, though she spent the year in orphanages and refugee camps in third world and war-torn countries.

She was complex, was Eames' girl, and while it may have been her bright coloring and throaty voice with its exotic accent that had initially caught his eye, it was easy to see what had kept his interest.  They liked puzzles, these dreamers did.  And Anuli was a puzzle.

She and Ariadne were visiting the Cluny, otherwise known as the Museum of the Middle Ages.  Ariadne enjoyed walking through the centuries-old space, and secretly hoped that there would someday come a mark with whom ancient ruins would resonate.  She'd love to design a level in a castle or abbey.  Anuli loved to sit and look at the Unicorn Tapestries, and after some time spent sketching vaulted ceilings, trefoils, and other hallmarks of Gothic architecture, Ariadne was heading to join her.  There was something so quietly dignified about the tapestries, their once vibrant colors faded but seemingly determined to cling to some of their original brilliance.

Anuli had the tapestry room to herself, and Ariadne settled down next to her on the hard stone bench.  "What do you think?"

Anuli gestured to one of the tapestries, which depicted a beautiful woman dressed in dark blue robes embroidered with gold.  She was standing on what looked like a blue carpet but (Ariadne dimly recalled from a survey of western art she'd taken early in her undergraduate career) was actually meant to represent the forest floor, and was surrounded by a sea of flowers and animals on a red background.  There was a word for the practice, but Ariadne couldn't remember what it was.  Also standing on the blue carpet were a lion and a unicorn, one on either side of the woman.  She was reaching out with her left hand to touch the horn on the unicorn's head and holding a flag with her right.  The lion was looking away from them—gazing out of the tapestry at the two women.

"What's it called again—the background?  With all the flowers and animals but no sense of depth?"

"Verdure or  _Mille Fleurs_ ," Anuli answered.  She didn't just enjoy art, she also read about it.  Ariadne found her an enormously useful resource on these trips.

"That's right.  A Flemish thing, right?" Anuli nodded.  "So what about that tapestry?"

Anuli tilted her head slightly, as if considering it anew, although she hadn't taken her eyes off of it since Ariadne had entered the room.  Her braid, which she'd pulled forward to hang down her front, inched towards the edge of her shoulder with the movement.  "It reminds me of the three of you—you, Eames, and Arthur."

"Really?"  Ariadne turned to look at the tapestry again and leaned forward a little to make out its identifying placard.   _Le Toucher,_ "Touch."  She tilted her head the way Anuli had, on the off chance that doing so would actually alter what she saw.  "Huh."

"Do you see it?"

"I'm the lady, I assume?"

Anuli smiled.  "Yes."

"And I'm guessing the lion and the unicorn are Arthur and Eames.  But which one is which?"

"Eames in the lion, of course."

"Of course, yes, I can see that now.  Which makes Arthur the…unicorn."

Anuli smiled a little at Ariadne's dry tone.

"No, no, I can see it, actually!  Solitary, mysterious, a little unapproachable."

"And you are the one reaching out to touch—"

"—his ridiculously large appendage," Ariadne finished for her.

Anuli burst into helpless laughter, and Ariadne grinned.  It was the first time she'd heard the other woman laugh, and it felt really good to have been the cause of it.  She got the feeling that Anuli wasn't used to having excuses to laugh.

Ariadne stood and gathered her coat.  "Do you think you could get your mind out of the gutter long enough to help me pick out some wine?  I'm awful at it, but Arthur's doing dinner.  We all have our jobs.

Anuli secured her scarf and buttoned her peacoat to her neck, becoming a stylish column of black . "How do you usually pick out wine?"

Ariadne pulled her knit beret out of her pocket and secured it on her head so it covered her ears.  "I defer to Arthur."

"And if you're on your own?"

"Whatever label is prettiest."

"Does that often work out?"

"Nope!"  Ariadne responded cheerily, "Which is why you're coming along.  Oh," she turned back to pin her companion with a glance, "Large appendages aside, I wouldn't mention the unicorn comparison to Arthur.  Eames, however, would probably appreciate being likened to a lion."

"Yes," Anuli murmured, half to herself, "I rather think he would."

* * *

They presented quite a picture from afar, two women of similar height and weight but a study in contrasts.  Ariadne was dark haired and porcelain-skinned, but was dressed in a rainbow of colors and textures, from the yellow beret to her red Converse All-Stars.  Anuli, bright haired and medium-skinned, was swathed in black from head to toe, though her hair was hard to hide, even under a hat.  It wasn't visible under her coat, but Eames knew she was wearing the necklace he'd bought for her in Cape Town, which was composed of large, irregularly shaped beads in an intense blue.  He'd given it to her after getting into town last night and watched her put it on that morning.

Ariadne caught sight of him and gave a wave.  Anuli met his eyes and smiled.  It was more than enough.

"Your lady is much better at wine than I am, Julian.  I have been thoroughly schooled."

"Oh, yes?"  He caught Anuli's gloved hand and pressed his lips to its back.  She shot him an annoyed glance, but was blushing under her freckles.  A mess of delightful contradictions, she was.  He couldn't get enough of them.

Ariadne glanced between the two of them.  She'd planned to catch the Metro here, but she hadn't realized that Eames would be meeting them.  She reevaluated her options.  There was a shop not far away that carried the loveliest cashmere sweaters.  Arthur appreciated a good sweater, and there were more presents under the tree for her the last she checked.  Decided, she bid her friends farewell and hurried off to get to the shop before it closed.

"Have a good time at the museum?"  They descended the steps.  The sound of a lone trumpet playing a Christmas carol echoed off the tiled tunnels that curved through the station.

"We did."

"Lots of girl talk?"

"Mm.  The usual comparing of men to animals."

"In the museum of medieval art?"  Eames' tone indicated disbelief.

Anuli leveled him with a solemn gaze.  "Oh, yes."

They settled into their seats on the train. Eames winked at her.  "Pr'haps I'll check out the museum myself."

"A fine plan.  Might I make a suggestion?"

Her voice was dusty and exotic beneath its French accent, and listening to it was rather like discovering a melodic, bubbling brook when you thought you were lost in the desert.  He was addicted to the sound of it.  "Sure."

"Look for the lions."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you tell I'm an art historian? I bet you can't. The Unicorn Tapestries are real and are by far the most beautiful things in the Museum of Medieval Art (which is housed in the former Cluny Abbey, hence the two names) in Paris. I highly, highly recommend seeking them out the next time you're there. I'd like to think that I've unlocked some sort of art historian achievement by turning an analysis of a work of art into a dick joke. Oh, if the professors who wrote my grad school recommendations could see me now…they would be so proud.


	8. In Which Gifts Are Exchanged

Christmas Day dawned clear and bright.  Ariadne woke, as she usually did, wrapped in Arthur's freakish monkey arms, enfolded close to his chest.  It was fortunate that she didn't require freedom of movement while she slept, because she would have hated to miss out on even one day of waking to the feeling of the steady rise and fall of Arthur's chest against her back.  She would not mind, however, a morning of not waking up to some part of Crash's body startlingly close to her face.  This morning it was a foot.  Some mornings it was his behind.  Ariadne supposed she should consider the gift of a foot a sort of Christmas miracle.

Crash flexed his toes in his sleep, inadvertently brushing the furry appendages against Ariadne's nose.  She sneezed.  Crash, startled by the sound, jumped, rolled away from the offending noise, and fell onto the floor.  The resounding thud assured Ariadne that he had, by some miracle, actually landed on his feet.

She felt Arthur tense slightly behind her, and knew that the sound had woken him.  "Cat?"  His voice was low and rusty.

"Cat," she confirmed.

He lowered his head, buried his face in her hair, and inhaled.  "Hello."

"Hello.  It's Christmas."

"I know.  You're always especially attractive on Christmas morning."

She barked out a surprised laugh.  "What?  Okay, A: you can't even see my face, and B: what?"

He chuckled and nuzzled her neck.  "Aren't you going to wish me merry?"

He was in an odd mood, and maybe it was the fact that sleep was still clearing from her brain, but she found it incredibly amusing.  She turned in his arms so she could see his face.  "You seemed merry enough with my help."

He leaned in to touch her nose with his.  "Merry Christmas, Ariadne."

"Merry Christmas."  She covered her mouth with her hand.  "We've both got morning breath, you know."

"I know.  Kiss me anyway."

It was a little thing, but hearing the words from the normally fastidious Arthur gave her a jolt.  Ariadne felt her eyes widen, and she grabbed his face a little more roughly than she'd planned to, planting her lips on his.

With something that sounded suspiciously like a growl, Arthur rolled her beneath him, grasping her two hands in one of his and pinning them over her head.

Ariadne arched her back and gasped his name in response, which elicited another one of those might-be-growls that sent a visceral shock down her spine.  It may have been an altogether different way of waking up on Christmas morn than the holidays of her youth, but it was in no way less joyful.  She wrapped her legs around his narrow hips and propelled them to the side so that he was beneath her.  Freeing her hands from his, she gripped the smooth muscles of his shoulders and continued their devouring kiss.  His hands couldn't seem to be still, and moved restlessly over her; one up her back beneath the nightshirt she wore, the other down the back of one leg to her knee, then over her behind on the way back up.  The hand paused, then gave her butt a quick squeeze.  She broke the kiss to breathe out a laugh.  He grinned up at her, then rolled right until she was underneath him again.

His quick hands peeled the nightshirt over her head before she could blink, and she smoothed her hands up his chest as he tossed the shirt unceremoniously off the bed.  A plaintive, muffled  _meow_  gave them a clue as to the garment's final destination.

"Sorry, Crash," Arthur murmured to Ariadne's neck.

She slid a hand up to grip the back of his head.  "We're ignoring the cat?"

His mouth had found her collarbone.  "Hell, yes."

No, it was no less joyful a way to begin a Christmas Day.

 

* * *

 

Despite his initial protest, Crash had stayed happily underneath Ariande's nightshirt, a fact the couple discovered when they roused themselves for the second time a few hours later. She picked up the shirt to toss it in the laundry and found herself looking into a pair of wide green eyes.

"Oh, hello, creepy cat.  I don't suppose you want breakfast?"

Crash stood, stretching his spine, and casually walked into the wall next to the bedroom door.

"He was headed in the right direction, anyway," Arthur observed.  He finished straightening the bed's rumpled sheets and followed the cat's general path, stopping to flip the switch on the Christmas tree lights.  The glow attracted the cat's attention, and he began to wind his way back towards it.  Arthur scooped him up in one hand and gave him a stern glance.  "Don't even think about it."

Crashed meowed with what Arthur figured might have been happiness, had Arthur any clue how a happy cat might sound.

"I guess we should figure out breakfast, huh?"

* * *

Breakfast had been an impressive spread of fruit and crepes, accompanied by mimosas, which had had Ariadne raising her eyebrows.  "Well, this  _is_  fancy."

Arthur had smiled and sipped his drink.

They had lit the Yule log in the fireplace and, sitting on the ground, reclining against each other and the plush red sofa which dominated the space, had watched it burn in silence.  Crash, excited by the fire in the hearth, chose to express his joy by attacking the ribbon which decorated one of the smaller gifts beneath the tree.

Ariadne smiled.  "Oh, alright.  We'll open presents."

They started with the things from their friends and colleagues.  Yusuf had sent Ariadne a pretty silver bangle, and Arthur a new sedative he'd been developing. Arthur had raised an eyebrow at that.  "He sends me these to test all the time.  Why giftwrap this one?" 

"Because it's Christmas," Ariadne answered.  "And besides, the bottle's rather pretty."  Yusuf's concoctions usually came packaged in utilitarian clear glass bottles, but this one was a deep blue with an old-fashioned cork.

"If you say so," Arthur replied dryly, then laughed as Ariadne elbowed him.

From Eames, there was an exotic-looking woven scarf for Ariadne and a bright paisley tie for Arthur.  Ariadne snorted a laugh at the look on his face as he pulled it out of the box.  She expected a wry remark, but he seemed to be speechless.  Shaking his head, he replaced the tie in the box and set them both aside.

There was a bag addressed to them both from Anuli which was found to contain a bottle of wine.  Arthur whistled over the vintage, but it was the label design which caught Ariadne's eye.  It showed a single, dignified-looking unicorn.  Ariadne dissolved into helpless giggles, the cause of which she adamantly refused to explain to Arthur.

A box addressed to Ariadne and Arthur from Phillipa and James contained a framed painting (which, she concluded from the combination of careful lines and abstract swaths of paint, must have been a collaborative effort) of the four of them.  "What is it?" Arthur inquired, craning his neck to see.

"It's the kids and us!"

Arthur looked at her askance.  "Ariadne, there are no people in that painting."

"Well, of course not," she scoffed.  "We're dragons."

"Ah," he responded, mystified.

Cobb had given Arthur a first edition of Walt Whitman's  _Leaves of Grass_ , which he was very pleased with.

Ariadne opened her gift from Cobb, looked inside the box, then quickly closed it again.  "Did you know about this?"

He quirked that eyebrow.  "Know about what?"

"About the  _gun_  that's been wrapped under the tree for the last two weeks?"

"Dom gave you a gun?  Really?"

"Unless it's fake, yes."  She lifted the lid of the box again and carefully lifted a derringer not much bigger than her hand.  "It's pretty, but…why?"

"Wait."  Arthur reached out to lay his hand on her wrist.  "Let me see that."

She handed it over.  "What is it?"

"Ariadne…this was Mal's."

"What?"

"Yes.  I saw it a few times while visiting them before the kids were born.  I think it belonged to her mother, actually."

"But why give it to me?  I mean, it's clearly designed for a woman to use, but if it's an heirloom…"

"Ariadne.  You helped him find the real Mal in his memories.  You've been a positive female presence in James and Phillipa's lives.  You've been an exceptional successor as an architect.  You gave him his life back."  He handed the small weapon back to her . "I think this is his way of acknowledging that."

"Oh."  She looked down at the gun where it fit in her hand.  "I guess I'm going to learn to shoot after all."

"You don't have to."

"No."  She smiled up at him.  "No, I want to.  And this might not be much use against projections, but it could be nice to have in real life, just in case."

"That's why Mal carried it.  I think she even came to Dom's rescue a time or two with the thing."

Ariadne leaned against Arthur's side and he draped an arm around her shoulders.  They both gazed at the gun, with its delicate mother-of-pearl scrollwork.  "Quite a legacy.  Maybe it'll come to your rescue someday."

He chuckled.  "I'll just be happy if can come to  _yours_."

Done with the gifts from others (there were a few things from various other contacts and friends, and the traditional open-ended invitation to stay in any of his various resorts that came in Saito's annual Christmas card), they moved on to the small pile of gifts they'd bought for one another.  Arthur smiled over his new sweater and liked the simple cufflinks she'd found so much that he immediately took off the ones he was wearing to try them out.  Since the large record player and speaker set lived in her office, she'd found a smaller vintage player the right size to fit in his workspace (which basically consisted of a desk in a small alcove off the main living room—it was an arrangement which suited them both, since she preferred to spread out and post sketches and inspiration photos on her walls, and he required much less space).  The fact that the player resembled a briefcase and he was, well, the man with the briefcase, was a reference they both liked.

He had bought her a pair of antique pearl drop earrings set on modern posts, which she put on right away.  Also for her were a pair of vintage black Ray-Ban sunglasses and a couple of newer albums—by Arcade Fire and She & Him—on vinyl.  "So we can build our own collection," he explained as she admired them.

There were two small packages addressed to Crash, who was lost, euphoric, in a sea of wrapping paper.  Both turned out to be collars with bells on them, one decorated in blue with bright yellow spots, the other a subdued argyle pattern.  Ariadne looked at Arthur.  "Argyle? Really?"

"There's no reason he can't at least appear to be a dignified creature."

She laughed.  "No, I guess not.  Let's put him in yours.  I think it suits him better."

"I give it a week before he manages to get it lost or snagged on something and we can use the other one."

There were two gifts left, both square and flat and of similar dimensions.  Ariadne opened hers first.  It was a framed oil painting showing a very familiar coastline.  She ran her fingers lightly over the bumps in the paint and said nothing.  "It's by an artist who lives not far from where you grew up.  I tried to find something that would remind you of home but not…" he trailed off.

"It's not where they died.  I recognize where this is, actually, and it's about fifty miles up the coast."

"So it's not home."

"No."  She smiled mistily at him.  "But it's close."  She wrapped her hand around the back of his neck and pulled him towards her so she could press her lips softly to his.  "It's perfect, Arthur.  I didn't even realize how much I missed it; how did you know?"

"I know everything," he murmured against her lips before briefly deepening the kiss.

She pulled back with a smile and gestured to the last wrapped package.  "Do you know what that is, then?"

He reached out to pick it up, hefting it with a contemplative look.  She laughed.  "Alright, alright, open it!"

He peeled back the paper to reveal a drawing in a modern black frame.  The drawing was simple, two figures sitting together in a sea of white.  The lines were heavy and nearly obscured what they portrayed, but the objects were clear enough: a single die, and next to it a bishop from a chessboard.  Arthur pulled his arm from around Ariadne's shoulders so he could hold the drawing with both hands.

"Ari…" was all he said.

"Do you like it?"

He looked at her, and his eyes suddenly seemed full of words.  "Yes."

She smiled and leaned in to wrap her arms around his waist.  "Good."

He cleared his throat.  "We did well in the wall art department this year."

Ariadne laughed.  "I'm hanging James and Phillipa's painting in my office, just so you know."

"I still don't understand why we're dragons."  He lifted the painting under discussion from where it sat on the couch.  "Or why your middle name is written as 'Starfeet' and mine is—" he squinted slightly at the word, "'Earlobe?'"

"Poor Arthur.  So many mysteries this morning."

He glanced at his watch.  "Not morning anymore.  Did you have anything you wanted to do for the rest of the day?"

"Well, I thought maybe we could watch the Yule log and cuddle for awhile.  Then go for a walk in the snow?  You know, something terribly Parisian and romantic.  How does that sound?"

"Sounds perfect."  He leaned down to kiss her forehead.  "Merry Christmas, Ariadne."

"Merry Christmas, Earlobe."


	9. Epiphanies

"I'm afraid my daughter has something of a crush on you," Dom mentioned almost apologetically. It was his last day in Paris, and he and Arthur were meeting over coffee, discussing work. He may have been retired, but not everyone seeking Dom out for jobs was aware of the fact. He tried to pass everything he heard in Arthur's direction.

Arthur coughed into his coffee. "Pardon?"

"Phillipa. I didn't even notice, but Miles tells me that you're been all she's talked about since we've been here."

"Oh. I'm sorry?"

Dom laughed, and reached across the table to clap his friend on the wrist. "Nothing to be sorry about. We'll be back in California tomorrow, after all, and I'm sure it'll pass. Just thought you should be aware before tonight."

"Ah. Then, thank you. Getting back to the man in Alberta…"

"Right. Should be pretty straightforward, if you want to take it."

He mentioned it to Ariadne later that afternoon. She'd been holed up in her office for hours by the time he got back, which he could tell as soon as he saw that she'd abandoned sitting at her desk entirely. The design she was working on wasn't going very well, as evidenced by the spread of papers across the floor before her and the state of her hair, which looked as if she'd been constantly running her hands through it in frustration. The Pixies' Doolittle was playing at maximum volume, and when she didn't look up at his entrance, he walked over to the record player and reset the stylus so that "Here Comes Your Man" came on.

She didn't look up, but he could hear the smile in her voice. "Yes, that's very clever, thank you."

He settled on the edge of the sofa, careful not to shift any of the books she'd piled there. They were mostly architecture tomes, though he noticed a few odd volumes about M.C. Escher, René Magritte, and other surrealist and cubist artists. "Trouble?"

"I thought that incorporating paradoxes into a design for a lover of paradoxical art would be simple." She looked up at him. "It's not."

He nodded in understanding. "It's not the design that's challenging, but for the architect to keep straight what's functional and what's decorative."

"Eames will have to memorize two levels of this nonsense. He's going to kill me when he sees it. Maybe I should just go in with you on this one."

"That shouldn't be a problem."

"Ugh." She shoved the papers nearest to her away and stretched her arms over her head. "Distract me from this. Please."

He glanced around. "Where's the cat?"

"Banished to the bedroom. He was walking on stuff and messing up my system."

He took in the utter chaos of the room. "I can see how you would be concerned about that."

"Oh, shut up, you." Her words were stern, but she was smiling. She held a hand out to him. "Rescue me from this room?" He stood and pulled her up from her sitting position. "My hero. How was Cobb?"

"Good. Ready to get home, I think."

She shut the record player off and replaced the album in its sleeve. "Why's that? Tired of our sparkling conversation?"

He'd gone to let the cat out of the bedroom. Crash was curled up on the bed and blinked at him blearily, looking for all the world like he'd forgotten there were any other rooms he could have been occupying. "Tired of being caught in between his mother- and father-in-law, more like," he called back to her.

"That's right, they split after Mal's death, didn't they?"

"Yeah." He walked back into the room in his shirtsleeves and tie, cuffs rolled to his elbows. The cat dogged his heels, bumping his head against Arthur's ankle when he stopped and sank down on the couch. "It wasn't pretty, to hear Dom tell it. François blamed Miles for introducing Mal to Dom as much as she blamed Dom for getting her involved in the life."

"That's too bad." Ariadne joined Arthur on the couch, dropping her feet unceremoniously into his lap. Without commenting, Arthur took one of them and started to massage it. She leaned her head back in bliss. "Yes, just keep doing that. You are a god among men."

For some reason, that reminded Arthur of what Dom had told him earlier, and he shared the conversation with her. She propped a hand under her head and considered him from her end of the couch.

"Oh. Well, that explains that, anyway."

"Explains what?"

"The day you decided to get shot—"

"I did not decide to get shot—"

"Whatever. That day, when the kids were here with me, Phillipa would laugh like a loon whenever James or I mentioned you. I didn't really think about it at the time, since I was trying not to lose my mind worrying—"

He squeezed the ball of her foot gently, but otherwise said nothing.

"—but it was really odd. And she didn't run to give you a hug when you got back, either."

"Well, I was certainly grateful for that. James' welcome was more than enough."

She grinned. "Ah, don't be a baby." He tickled the arch of her foot in revenge, and, laughing, she kicked at him and tucked it beneath the couch cushion. He picked up the other foot and began to massage it. "Well, I certainly can't fault Phillipa for her taste."

He raised his eyebrows but was silent.

"Let's hope that doesn't make things awkward. Because there's nothing more uncomfortable than a love triangle."

"We'll see tonight, I guess."

"Tonight? Oh, that's right, it's Epiphany, isn't it? Are we supposed to bring anything to dinner? I can't remember anything for shit today."

"Fois gras and a vegetable side dish."

"Ew. You do your thing with goose livers. I'll see what I can do with the rest of that asparagus."

"Sounds good." He'd finished the foot massage and was sitting with his hand resting on her ankle, thumb moving absently back and forth.

"This will be the first time Eames is in town for one of these deals. Should be interesting."

"Maybe James will pester him for piggy-back rides instead of me." Ariadne couldn't tell if he was cheered or depressed by the prospect. Arthur was good with Cobb's kids, and seemed to adore them as much as they did him, but he wasn't the sort who came across as a 'kid person' at first glance. Ariadne wondered idly if it would ever be a topic they'd have to broach. Of course, she wasn't even sure she was a kid person in the sense that she wanted to birth them.

"Okay." Ariadne levered herself up until she was sitting on the couch. "Guess I'd better go figure out a way to turn asparagus into something roughly approaching palatable. You keep your goose livers on your side of the kitchen, and we'll be fine."

He smirked at her. "You know you'll eat them tonight."

"Yeah, but that doesn't mean I want to think about them. Yuck." She walked to the cabinet in the kitchen were cookbooks were kept. "We have lots of butter, right? I get the feeling I'm going to need a lot of butter to accomplish this."

They usually took the Metro around the city, but Arthur did keep a car in a long-term parking garage for the odd occasion they needed to go somewhere outside the Paris limits. It was a smallish black luxury sedan, a car that said money and dignity without shouting it, much like the man who drove it. They were taking it tonight, to the house where Mal had spent her formative years, where Madame Miles still lived, and where Dom and the kids stayed whenever they were in France.

It was essentially a family dinner, but Ariadne had decided to dress up anyway, mainly to distract herself from the stress of the day. Her dress was a simple red column with a single, small ruffle around the neckline. She was wearing the pearl drops Arthur had given her for Christmas in her ears and a long delicate gold chain looped twice around her neck. Her shoes were simple bronze peep-toed heels and her hair was up, braided and pinned in the style she'd been sporting more often in the weeks since Arthur had commented that he liked it.

Arthur was dressed like, well, like Arthur, though he had tucked a forest green pocket square into the breast pocket of his suit jacket. Something about that pocket square did funny things to Ariadne's insides. It reminded her obliquely of the handkerchief he'd wrapped her bleeding fingers on a train a year and a half before, which in turn evoked very pleasant memories of their first night together.

She decided not to mention it him. He was better off not knowing the effect various small pieces of fabric carried on his person had on her.

The drive wasn't a terribly long one, and they were soon pulling into the familiar driveway. Ariadne recognized Professor Miles' little red hatchback already in the drive, as well as Anuli's sleek silver car. They were the last to arrive, then.

The house wasn't noisy as they entered, ushered inside by a smiling Miles, but it was warm and loud enough to clearly say family. Ariadne smiled past the lump in her throat as James rushed up to wrap his small arms around first her, and then Arthur's knees. Phillipa hung back at the door to the living room. She smiled and waved when Arthur and Ariadne greeted her, and yes, now that she was looking for it, Ariadne could see her blush.

Poor girl. Having a crush on Arthur was far from the easiest thing in life.

Cobb poured them glasses of wine and Ariadne left Arthur to deal with the delivery of dishes to François Miles while she settled down on the couch with Anuli, who was watching James craft a tower with the brightly colored blocks which had clearly been a Christmas present. After watching Arthur disappear into the kitchen, Phillipa wandered over to show them her new doll, a pretty thing with delicate porcelain features. She hoisted herself up to sit wedged between the two women. Anuli looked like she wasn't sure what to do with the child, but Phillipa had apparently decided that whoever came with her Uncle Julian was okay with her and was oblivious to the woman's discomfort.

Ariadne was complimenting Phillipa on her decision to name the doll "Melisande" when Eames joined them, sitting down on Anuli's other side and draping a casual arm around her shoulders. "So, this is where all the pretty ladies are hiding."

Phillipa clambered over Anuli to plop down in Eames' lap and commenced showing off her doll to him. From where she was sitting, Ariadne noticed Anuli's slight stiffening, but she relaxed as Eames absent-mindedly stroked the nape of her neck with his fingertips. Soon, she was smiling a little as she joined in the discussion of the doll and other Christmas morning surprises.

Arthur appeared to Ariadne's right to place a plate of hors d'oeuvres on the coffee table in front of them, then perched on the sofa's arm. Ariadne leaned forward to take a little fois gras, and shot Arthur a quelling look before he could say anything. "Not a word."

He smiled, and stole some of the fois gras off of her plate.

"Not a word about what?" James had turned his attention from his block tower. "Daddy says it's not nice to tell secrets."

Ariadne considered the boy. "Well, I thought we should let it be a surprise, but—"

"There's a cake in the kitchen," Arthur finished.

James rolled his eyes. "Duh. It's Epiphany, Uncle Arthur. There's always a cake on Epiphany."

"You see? I told you he was too smart not to figure it out."

James beamed at Arthur's praise. "I'm building the leaning tower of Pisa, but I can't figure out how to make it lean. Want to help?"

"Sure, but wouldn't Aunt Ariadne be more helpful? Since she's an architect, like your dad and grandpa."

James pondered that, then nodded. "Okay, she can help, too."

They were all three sitting on the ground around the blocks, with Cobb, Miles, Anuli, Eames, and Phillipa contributing suggestions on how to make wooden blocks lean from their respective places around the room when François called from the doorway that dinner was served. As he helped her to her feet, Ariadne reflected that Arthur was definitely a kid person after all.

Dinner was a glorious series of heavy French dishes, and the adults were sitting around the table in danger of slipping into food-and-wine comas when James demanded to know when they were going to eat the cake. No one actually wanted to move, but Cobb roused himself to undertake the noble cause of shutting his kid up.

The galette des rois, or king's cake, had apparently been made by Anuli this year, from her grandmother's recipe, and it was different from the one François had baked in past years. The one thing that would be the same, Ariadne knew, was the single fava bean baked into the cake. Last year, Ariadne had gotten the bean, declared Professor Miles her consort, and had spent the rest of the evening ordering James and Phillipa to fetch and carry the most ridiculous items she could think of, much to their delight.

"Ariadne had a good reign as king this year, I know you'll agree—"

Ariadne nodded benevolently as Arthur protested, "You're only saying that because you got to play queen."

"Of course," Miles continued, "but, as I was saying, it's time to name a successor. Dom, would you serve the cake?"

Cobb acquiesced, and the cake was cut and pieces distributed. Ariadne caught a small movement out of the corner of her eye; Eames shaking his head slightly at Cobb as he laid a piece in front of him. Smoothly, Cobb placed the piece in front of Phillipa and gave Eames the next one instead. Ariadne wasn't surprised at Phillipa's delighted cry some moments later at discovering the peculiar hard bean in her slice of cake.

Everyone exclaimed in congratulations as a paper crown was unfolded and placed ceremoniously on Phillipa's pretty blonde head.

"Well, who's your queen consort then, Pips?" Asked Eames.

Ariadne reached over to playfully squeeze Arthur's leg as Phillipa blushed bright red and mumbled nearly soundlessly "Uncle Arthur."

Eames' loud guffaw was cut short at Anuli's pointed suggestion to the new king that Uncle Julian would make an appropriate royal steed. So Phillipa spent the rest of the evening alternately blushing at Arthur and ordering Eames to carry her to various places in the house. ("It almost made up for the stupid tie," Arthur said later in the car, "Almost.")

Finally, hours later, long after the kids had passed out—James sprawled across Cobb's lap and Phillipa curled between Eames and Arthur on the couch—the last of the wine was drunk and the remains of the Yule log in the hearth sputtered out.

Cobb sighed audibly. "I am not looking forward to getting all of their new stuff back to California." He looked briefly at his father-in-law. "You just had to buy him those blocks."

"You could always leave them here for the next time you visit," François suggested in her pretty, thick accent, so like that of the projection Mal of Cobb's memories that Ariadne had physically jumped the first time she heard her speak.

"Thank you, François," Cobb replied. "You have no idea how tempting that is. But he would cry all the way back to the states, and that is a long flight."

Anuli was the first to stand, Eames quickly joining her. "I am sorry to leave, but I fly to Cambodia tomorrow and must get home to finish packing. Thank you all so much for including me in your celebration and allowing me to make my grandmother's cake. It was truly the best l'Épiphanie I have experienced since she passed away."

Arthur (moving carefully so as not to rouse the sleeping Phillipa) and Ariadne rose to follow them. They bid their farewells to François and Miles, then paused to talk to Cobb in the entry as they pulled on their coats.

"You're going to go forward on the job we discussed?"

Arthur nodded at Cobb, then turned to Eames. "You overheard, I know. Interested?"

"I am. I'll drop by the honeymoon suite—" Ariadne rolled her eyes at the term, which he persisted in calling her and Arthur's flat, despite the fact that they persisted in not being married—"tomorrow after driving lovely Anuli to the airport." Anuli blushed slightly at being called 'lovely,' but merely finished buttoning her coat and took Eames' hand as they left the house.

The remaining couple turned to Cobb. "It was good to spend the holidays with you, Cobb. Please pass on my thanks to François for hosting us again." Ariadne reached up to give him a quick hug. "And travel safely. Perhaps we'll see you when we're in the states in a few months."

"Perhaps." He smiled affectionately at Ariadne, then reached out to grasp Arthur's hand. They were half out the door when Ariadne turned back.

"Cobb. Thank you for trusting me with it."

He nodded, and his eyes shone briefly before he looked down, hiding them. "Thank you."

And then they were bundled in the car. "We have a pretty great family, you know," Ariadne remarked sleepily to Arthur.

He glanced at her, then back at the road. "I guess we do."


	10. Arthur is Sly, Like Fox

Arthur and Ariadne were strolling through the  _Tuileries_  Gardens.  They generally tried to avoid the more touristy areas of Paris unless one of them had a specific purpose for being there, but the  _Tuileries_  were a weakness for them both.  They would start outside the  _Louvre_  (I.M. Pei's glass pyramid was a favourite of Arthur's) and stroll the length of the Gardens to the  _Place de la Concord._   The snow had melted, but the early March air was stubbornly crisp.  The Garden's tall trees stood dignified and bare, devoid of green but looking less dead than simply...waiting.  Ariadne was looking forward to watching them come back to life in the spring.

They had spent the months since Christmas fairly busy, though not necessarily with the same projects. Arthur was frequently out of town on various fact-finding missions, for Saito and other old contacts in the dream-sharing world, and while Ariadne designed a few small levels for simpler jobs, her main occupation had been designing a real-world project for Anuli.

The other woman had moved into a gorgeous old loft space that had been "modernized" in the 1980s almost beyond recognition.  It had good bones, however, and after Anuli had asked Ariadne to take a look at it and give an opinion, she had volunteered to sketch up some ideas.  Anuli had loved them so much that she'd hired Ariadne to put them into practice.  It was her first actual architecture job since graduating, though she was licensed, and although it took some concentration to adjust for designing a space in which the laws of physics always applied, in the end it was an experience she enjoyed thoroughly.  It was a relief to know that she hadn't lost the real-world knack by designing for dreams, and satisfying to walk out of the finished flat knowing that it would still exist the next time she walked in.  On top of everything else, it was nice to have options.

So they had kept busy, but hadn't seen much of each other.  By the end of February, Ariadne had spent so much time holed up in her office that she was sick of seeing it, and Arthur had realized with a jolt that he missed being home with her.  Something needed to be done.

Ariadne took a deep gulp of stinging cold air and smiled to herself.  It was so nice to be walking with the man she loved,  _outside the blasted apartment_.  She'd missed the outdoors and moving and the way the Paris sun rose in the winter sky.  Perhaps she could talk Arthur into continuing past the  _Place_.  They had nothing planned today, not really.

"Do you have anything lined up from about the 20th of April on?"  He asked, out of the blue.

"What?"  Ariadne struggled to bring her mind back to the present and away from the wonderful, outside-the-apartment day she'd been planning in her head.  "Um, I don't think so.  Is there anything on the calendar?"

Arthur kept a comprehensive calendar of both of their schedules.  He was detail-oriented and it made him happy to have all of his ducks in a row.  Ariadne didn't mind, as he never scheduled anything  _for_  her without first checking, and his memory of her plans was a heck of a lot more reliable than hers was.  "No.  But we haven't had a lot of time to discuss it lately."

She wrapped her arms around his right arm and snuggled into his warmth, laughing.  "Worried I was planning on running away without you?"

"No."  She couldn't see his face, but could hear the smile in his voice.  "How about running away  _with_  me?"

"What?  Where?"

"A month, April 20th to May 20th.  Can you swing it?"

"I…yes.  Yes, there's nothing planned.  I was sort of hoping we could take a little break anyways."

"Good."

"Arthur, what's this about?  Where are we going?  Is there a job?"

"No."  They'd reached the  _Place de la Concord_  and Arthur took her hand to steer her towards the entrance to the  _Concord_  Metro stop.

"Ah—actually, I was hoping we could walk some more."

"We're not going home."

"We aren't?  Then where are we—" she watched in bemusement as he bought tickets that took them in the opposite direction, away from the flat.  "Is this a new thing you're doing?  Putting me totally off my guard to surprise me?"

"It wouldn't be much of a surprise if I told now, now would it?"

They settled into a pair of seats on the Metro.  She studied him the entire ride, willing him to turn and meet her eyes, quirk one of those eyebrows, give her some clue as to what this unexpected excursion was about.  He sat determinedly facing forward, though he kept his fingers laced with hers in her lap.  A few stops later, he stood, unlatched the nearest door, and pulled her with him into the station.

Ariadne glanced around for the identifying sign.  " _Sèvres_?  But this is all shops.  You hate shopping."  That wasn't precisely true; Arthur had a short list of impeccable tailors located in various cities that he carried around in his head, but on the whole, he didn't enjoy browsing places like the  _Rue de Sèvres_.

"I study people's routines for a living.  I've learned the value in being unpredictable."

"You're taking us shopping to be unpredictable?"  She glanced behind her at the mostly empty station they were exiting.  "Are we being followed?"

"No."

"I—" she huffed out a breath and stopped short outside the Metro exit.  "I have no idea what's going on."

He chuckled.  "I know," then pulled her back to his side, laid his hand on the small of her back, and steered her down the block.  They stopped in front of a familiar storefront, which just confused Ariadne more.

" _Le Bon Marche_?  Really?"  Ariadne had come to understand that in Arthur's mind, the worst kind of shopping was department store shopping .  _Le Bon Marche_  may have been the oldest store of its kind in the city, but it was still definitely a department store.

"We're picking something up.  Come on."  He tugged her through the door.

Ariadne had given up on getting any information from him, and instead contented herself with taking the place in.  She'd been before, not long after moving to Paris, but she hadn't been thinking with the mind of an architect then.  Now she studied as they walked along.  The juxtaposition of the store's Art Nouveau-styled exterior with its white, modern interior was really stunning.  Almost a real world paradox in how unexpected it was.

Arthur wasn't one for browsing, and led her directly to the luggage department.  The woman behind the sales counter was beautiful and a little forbidding in her pencil skirt and tailored blouse, but her face lit up at the sight of Arthur.  "Ah, Monsieur Hamilton!"

Arthur smiled and greeted her; while Ariadne tried her best not to appear as if she was comparing her own bright mix of apparel to the woman's sleek business attire, so similar to Arthur's own.  She continued her perusal of the store.  Arthur still held her hand in his, and squeezed it slightly to get her attention.

"Hmm?"

"She's gone to get our order."  Ariadne resisted the urge to exclaim  _WHAT ORDER?_  and said nothing.  "This isn't set in stone.  If you don't like anything, you aren't stuck with it."

A light came on in Ariadne's mind.  Arthur was a sweet and thoughtful guy, but he wasn't usually the type to shower her with gifts.  "Wait—we're picking something up for me?  My birthday's in September."

"It's not a birthday present.  And they're for both of us."

"They—" Ariadne was cut off by the sound of rumbling coming from behind the sales counter.  "What in the world?"

The stylish sales associate clicked her way back towards them on impossibly high heels, but Ariadne was beyond caring about her.  Her eyes were on the large cart the woman was pushing.  It was stacked high with beautiful, old-fashioned styled suitcases, five red with tan leather straps, and three in a deep, shimmery mahogany with similarly colored straps.

"That's…a lot of luggage, Arthur."

"Mademoiselle does not like?"  The sales girl inquired in English.  Ariadne shot the girl a sharp look, and saw Arthur giving her a similar one.  The sight encouraged her.

"I didn't say that."  She turned to Arthur.  "Don't we have luggage?"

"We do, but it's not holding up too well.  And we both need a few more cases than we have for this next trip."

"Ah yes, the mysterious month."  She grinned at him.  "I need five red suitcases?"

He blushed a little, and shrugged.  "Take a look at them and see which you like."

Ariadne removed the red cases from the cart one by one.  They ranged in size from a small, hinged vanity to a deep case that stood even with her hips, with three in intervening sizes.  Two of the medium cases were nearly identical in size, but Ariadne noticed that one had a handle and wheels for rolling, and the other did not.  After conferring with Arthur on the needs of the mystery trip (which he would only describe in the most general terms) and considering the damage her poor old suitcase had taken on the flight back from Buenos Aires, she chose four of the five cases: the vanity, a large rolling case, a medium case without wheels, and a smaller rolling case designed to fit in airplane cabins.

Arthur had a similar selection of luggage, with a large, deep rolling case, a medium case without wheels, and a slim attaché case designed to be worn as a messenger bag.  Ariadne thought they suited him well.

She considered the luggage as it waited to be purchased.  He clearly knew what to look for in choosing a style for her.  The whole collection exuded an old worldliness and class that appealed to Arthur, but the smaller elements were all for her.  She loved the red, the sturdiness of the pieces, the leather straps and gleaming gold locks.  The collection Arthur had chosen for himself was labeled "The Orient," which made perfect sense.

Arthur finished paying, and asked the associate to please call a cab.  He walked over and stood next to Ariadne.  "What are you doing?"

"Admiring our little suitcase family."  Arthur laughed.  "I do like them, you know.  It's a lovely surprise, even if it  _isn't_  my birthday.  Do I even want to know how much all this put you back?"

He said nothing, merely leaned in and pressed his lips briefly to the crown of her head.  She took that to mean "no."  Ah, well.  It's not like he couldn't afford it.

There was a soft throat clearing to their left.  The sales associate was smiling—and not just at Arthur.  Ariadne smiled back.  After all, she couldn't fault someone for finding him attractive.  " _Monsieur et mademoiselle, votre taxi est ici_."

"Ah.   _Merci._   Could we make use of the cart again?"  Arthur inquired.

" _Oui, bien sûr."_

They made their way back down to the store's entrance, assured that their luggage would meet them there.  "Sure there aren't any other super secret things we need to stop for?  A pair of roller skates, perhaps?  Or a pony?" Ariadne teased.

"I don't think they sell ponies here.  Would you like one?"

"Yes," Ariadne answered, determined to be contrary even if he  _had_  just spent thousands of dollars on ridiculously nice luggage for them both.

"I'll see what I can do."

"Eh."  She grinned at him.  "We'd have to pony-proof the flat, and I hear that's hell.  Plus, Crash would get jealous."

"Another time, then."

They approached where their empty luggage was being loaded into the cab.  The vehicle wasn't very large, and they ended up having to sit surrounded by much of it in the back seat.  Ariadne was forced so far over by the suitcases that she was practically in Arthur's lap.

"You really didn't think this through, did you?"  She laughed at him.

He smiled back.  "No, I guess I didn't."

She leaned up to kiss him.  They weren't usually big on public displays of affection, but they were squeezed in the back of a cab surrounded by empty suitcases he had inexplicably bought for them, and she just couldn't help herself.  "I missed you," she murmured against his lips.

He smoothed her hair behind one ear and spoke so quietly she almost didn't hear him.  "I missed you, too."

She kissed him again.  "Thank you for my random red luggage."

"You're welcome."

The taxi driver took a turn at a faster clip than he probably should have, and the stack of suitcases fell into Ariadne, forcing her farther into Arthur's arms.  Neither appeared to notice.  The driver grinned into the rearview mirror, and took them the rest of the way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I spent more time researching this chapter than I did writing it. Metro maps, cruise schedules, luggage options. I now know everything there is to know about fine luggage. Everything.
> 
> I wrote this chapter 3 and a half years ago, and I have no idea the title reads like it should be spoken aloud with a Russian accent.


	11. Just Get Me To The Boat On Time

There was a dress in her closet that hadn't been there this morning.  Ariadne was absolutely sure of it, because she had actually decided to wear a skirt instead of jeans today, so she'd been inside the closet rather than just digging through drawers.  She knew Arthur had picked stuff up from the dry cleaners, so she figured he was either secretly a cross-dresser who had picked today to forget which side of the closet was his, or he'd bought her a dress.

Not that it wasn't an impressive dress.  She pulled it out of the closet and considered it.  It was a deep purple in a subtle, shimmery fabric.  The cut was simple enough, floor-length with a fitted waist, the only ornamentation were jet-black beads around the wide yoke neckline.  In fact…Ariadne considered the garment.  In fact, it was almost identical to the evening dress she had imagined to wear in a dream about eight months earlier, where the mark was a professional fundraiser who spent a lot of time at $1000-a-plate galas.  They'd all gotten to dress up for it (Eames had looked striking in both his tux and as a tall blonde in a slinky red dress), and Ariadne had had fun coming up with something she'd never have the chance to wear in real life.  Apparently, Arthur had noticed.

She found him in his office.  The space wasn't actually a room, but rather an alcove they had sort of enclosed using freestanding shelves as room dividers.  The desk was about the only antique that Ariadne had found that Arthur really loved.  It was a dark ebonized wood, all clean lines and angles and reminiscent of something Japanese in design, though the dealer they'd bought it from insisted the provenance was British.  The only things hanging on the room's two walls were a striking abstract painting he'd bought at some point in the years before they met and had stored, and the framed drawing she'd made of their totems.  There were no knick-knacks cluttering up the shelves or the surface of his desk other than a heavy brass desk lamp and his laptop.  The record player she'd found him for Christmas rested on top of one of the shelves with a small stack of records beside it.  Some big band collection was playing as he sat and typed away, the cat sprawled on the floor next to him.

She crept up and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, splaying her fingers across his sternum as she leaned in until her mouth was next to his ear.  He kept typing without pause.  "Arthur," she murmured, "why do you keep buying me things?"

She could feel his cheek shift against hers as he smiled.  "Only two things."

"Four suitcases."

"Those count as one."

"Right, of course."  She waited until he reached a pause in his typing, then shimmied in between his torso and the desk to plop down on his lap.  He leaned back in his chair a little, and wrapped his arms lightly around her waist, an amused expression on his face.  "Where in the world did it come from?"

"The dress?"

"No, the Ford Mustang in the bedroom.  Yes, the dress."

"My tailor recommended a seamstress."

"Of course he did.  And you, what, described the dress from memory?"

He nodded.

"Wow.  It must have made some impression in the dream."

"It did."

"And here I thought your smoldering glances were all for Eames."  She was possessed with squirms as he unexpectedly launched a tickle attack on her midsection.  "Cut that out!"

"Take it back."

"Arthur—" she gasped, then dissolved into laughter again.  "Okay! Okay!"

He stopped.

"I concede that you are not sexually attracted to Eames when he is a woman.  Or a man!"  She gasped out the second part when his hand went for her belly again.  "At all!  You are not attracted to him at all!  You are far too busy being crazy about me."

"Agreed."  He withdrew his hands from their tickle-threatening positions and sat back.  She fell heavily onto his chest, still laughing.

"That was cruel."  He chuckled softly, and it was the laugh she loved best, the kind that ricocheted around his chest and echoed against her ear when it was pressed to his heart.

"So…the dress.  It's pretty much exactly what I remember imagining."

"I sketched it pretty quickly after we came out of the dream."

"Did you really?"  She pulled back slightly from him so she could see his face.  "I would  _love_  to see that sketch."

"No."

"Oh, come on.  Please?"

"I don't have it anymore, anyway.  I gave it to the seamstress.  Though I'm pretty sure the only thing she was able to ascertain from it was the dress's length."  He looked mildly perturbed by the fact.

She smiled and lightly patted his cheek.  "My poor, tortured artist."

He shot her a glance.  "Keep that up."

"Ha!  Okay, okay, I'm done with the teasing.  Honest."  She snuggled back into his chest.  The chair, which really wasn't designed for more than one person, gave a little  _creeeak_.  "I guess you develop a pretty good visual memory as an extractor."

"Pretty much."

"It's really lovely, Arthur.  It is.  I can't wait to try it on.  One thing, though: why in the world do I need an evening gown?"  She waited for a response, and when he said nothing, sat up again to look at his face.  He was wearing an enigmatic grin.  She huffed an exasperated breath.  "Is this another mystery month thing?"

He nodded.

"Damn it, Arthur, where are we going?"

"Eventually?  Alaska."

She hadn't actually expected an answer, and looked at him askance.  "We're going to Alaska, but it's going to take a month, I need $5,000 in new luggage, and a purple evening gown.  Are we going to some kind of…royal wedding?"

"In Alaska?"

"Ah, right, I guess not.   _Damn it, Arthur, where are we going?"_   She forced the question through clenched teeth.

He stood, displacing her, and strolled towards the kitchen.  Crash, roused by Ariadne's raised voice, jumped up and followed him, belly swinging hopefully beneath him.  "I told you. Alaska."

Ariadne took a deep breath, and tried to count to ten.  She got to four.  "That is really not helpful at all, thank you!"  She called after him, then plopped back down into his desk chair.  She was facing the still-open laptop.  She considered it thoughtfully, and scooted the chair forward so she could reach.

"The browser history's empty," he called helpfully from the kitchen.

She sighed, and fell back into the chair.  "Of course it is."

* * *

Though Arthur stayed mum on the topic of how they were getting there (and why it was going to take a month), he did reveal to Ariadne what awaited them in Alaska.

The military had established dream-sharing as it had been a decade earlier, but had fallen behind in the intervening years, while people like Cobb and Yusuf pushed the limits of what could and could not be accomplished in a dream, how deep one could go, and the correct chemical compounds required to bring a person back from the brink.  Arthur, Ariadne, Eames, and Yusuf had been invited to lead a sort of dreaming workshop at Fort Richardson in Anchorage.

Ariadne was responsible for coming up with mazes and levels of varying difficulty and Yusuf would be doing trial runs of various compounds.  Arthur and Eames would be playing both instructors and marks, when it came time to show their students what a subconscious putting up a hell of a resistance looked like.

Ariadne got to work on her mazes, and started packing at Arthur's (albeit extremely unenlightening) advice.  "Pack for cold weather.  Layers.  A bathing suit.  A few dresses in addition to the purple one.  Snow boots.  Enough clothes for a month."

"I did figure that part out myself, Arthur."

It kept her busy enough, and though having Arthur back made things more enjoyable, she was still looking forward to a month out of the flat, doing something— _anything_ —else.

* * *

April 20th dawned clear and bright.  Ariadne was throwing the last of her toiletries in her red vanity case, which had seemed the silliest of her suitcase purchases until she'd actually begun packing it.  She'd since fallen completely in love with the clever little thing, and could easily see herself taking it with her on all subsequent trips, no matter how long, just for the simple joy of carrying it around.

Arthur had bundled Crash into his carrier (a largely unnecessary piece of equipment, but useful in case something happened and he needed to be taken to the vet), and was returning from leaving the cat with Mme. Desmarais.  Ariadne added her case to the small mountain of others in the entry.

"Was she waiting, fish in hand?"

"Crash will feast like a king."

"Excellent."  She stood, arms akimbo, and surveyed the luggage.  "So, you're carrying all of this, right, manly man?"

"With one hand, little lady."

* * *

Arthur had taken a lesson from their previous taxi experience and thought to request a larger cab, so they were a little more comfortable on this trip.  He settled next to her in the back seat, and Ariadne waiting with baited breath to hear where they were going.

"Charles de Gaulle,  _s'il vous plait._ "

"The airport?"  He nodded.  "Curiouser and curiouser."

He smiled at her.  "Should I be wearing a hat?"

She smiled back.  "You must admit that it is a little rabbit hole-esque from my perspective."

"Just be patient."

"Bah."

* * *

At the airport, they boarded a private plane.  Ariadne looked around.  "This  _is_  fancy!"

The interior was decorated in that peculiar style that indicated a great deal of money but no personality at all.  A pair of decorative katanas on one cabin wall was the only identifying element.

"We'll have to remember to send Saito a postcard from wherever it is we're going."

"It's only a two hour flight, and he was going to be in Paris for business.  I just asked if we could borrow his place for a few hours."

"Oh, is that all?"  Ariadne's voice was dry and amused.  "So, two hours.  That puts us in…London?  No, too close.  Athens?  No, that's closer to three hours.  Somewhere in Italy?"

Arthur's expression gave nothing away.

"I'm guessing Milan or Rome.  Final answer."

"You'll find out in…" he checked his watch, "an hour and fifty minutes."  And then he took out that morning's paper and closed himself off behind it, leaving her to entertain herself for the remaining time.

She sketched various Italian landmarks from memory.  After finishing her Tower of Pisa, she considered it, than added a little Ariadne cheerfully tossing a frowning Arthur from its top.  It was surprisingly satisfying.

* * *

It was Rome.  There was a car waiting for them on the tarmac, a luxury to which Ariadne still was not accustomed after three years of being a multi-millionaire.  Arthur usually went subtle and understated when he traveled, and Ariadne preferred to follow his example.  This trip was going to be full of departures from the norm, it seemed.

The ride was quiet.  There was no point in asking questions, so Ariadne chose instead to take in the city from her window.  Arthur was doing the same on his side of the car.  She glanced at him, and was suddenly filled with a rush of affection for this man, so determined to surprise her and going about it in his careful, Arthur way.  She reached out to take his hand where it rested on the gleaming leather seat and linked her fingers with his.  He looked up at her.

"I like Rome," she said.

He smiled.  "I know."

"Are we staying here?"

"Not today.  We'll come back another time."

"Okay."

And then the ride was over, and the driver was solicitously opening her door for her.  She stepped out and looked around.

"The port?  We're taking a cruise?"  She spun to face Arthur as he emerged from the car behind her.  "We're taking a trans-Atlantic cruise?  That is  _so cool!_ "

He laughed.  "I thought you might like it."

"Are we going all the way to Alaska on a boat?"

"No, this only takes us to New York.  But the trip beyond it will be worth it, I promise."

She wrapped her arms around his waist and laughed.  "I believe you.  I really, really do."  She tilted her head up and drew his face down to hers for a smacking kiss.  "Thank you, Arthur.  You are the worst kind of secret-keeper, but I forgive you."

"Reconsidering tossing me from the Leaning Tower of Pisa, I hope?"

She grinned.  "I'm holding that in reserve."

A porter appeared from somewhere to their left to take their bags.  Arthur told him the name of the cabin, which, judging by the porter's reaction, was kind of a big deal.  Luggage dispatched, he looked down at Ariadne, still twined around him.  "Ready to embark?"

She grinned.  "Oh, absolutely.  Let's get this adventure started."


	12. The Architect and the Attorney

"I've never taken a cruise," Ariadne commented idly as they strolled the deck.

"I thought you liked old-fashioned travel."

"I do.  But I've never had enough disposable income before."

"You've had plenty of disposable income for the past three years."

"True, but I also had work.  And you."  She smiled up at him as they walked.  "I like being home with you.  Why go anywhere else?"

They had circled the boat completely and were back at the bow of the deck where they'd begun.  Rather than do another loop or go to another deck, Arthur steered Ariadne to stand at the rail so they could watch Rome as they sailed out of port.

"Speaking of…" she trailed off, and Arthur looked down in question.  She was looking off into the distance, as if considering her words.  Abruptly, she seemed to come to a decision and looked up at him.  "Why do all of this?  Why now?  I'm not ungrateful, as you know, just curious.  We've been together for two and a half years, have lived together for two.  You have nothing to prove to me, you know."

He smiled, and gently cupped her jaw.  "I know.  It was Mal's gun."

She frowned.  "I'm…sorry?"

"Do you remember what I told you about why Dom gave you the gun?"

"Well, yeah.  About how he felt I'd given him his life back, and it was in return."

He nodded.  "Right.  Before I met you, I didn't have a life.  I was good at what I did, and I enjoyed it enough to keep doing it.  I never took vacations because it never occurred to me to do so.  The time I spent with Dom and Mal was about as close as I came."

"But…you didn't have jobs constantly, right?  I mean, what did you do?"

He shrugged slightly.  "Various things.  Pick a destination from the departures board and buy a ticket, usually.  But it was never about relaxing.  Every city I went to was a place I could know more about.  It was always about research."

"Wait."  They were facing one another, with their sides turned to the vista the ship was sailing past.  "Wait, wait.  But when you came after me—"

"In Paris, I had a mission.  See how you were doing.  See if seeing you still made me feel the same way.  See if you needed me."

"I did," she interjected softly.

He smiled a little.  "You didn't, Ariadne.  You don't need anyone.  You're talented and focused, and you've been on your own long enough to not be bothered by it.  You may not have been thrilled about returning to school, but you recognized that it needed to be done and you did it with aplomb.  I was impressed, you know.  And humbled."

"What—why?  Why humbled?"

His thumb was stroking her cheekbone almost absently.  "Because seeing you made me realize that while you didn't need me,  _I_  needed  _you_."

"Arthur."  She shook her head, dislodging his hand, and grabbed both of his hands in hers, holding them between them.  "You're wrong.  I don't know what I looked like when you saw me, and honestly I was getting so little sleep at that point that I can't even remember most of it, but I missed you.  I didn't know what the hell to do about it, but there it is.  If I'd known it was going to take a train, I would have boarded one earlier."

"I was in Reykjavik at that point."

"Remind me to ask you about Iceland, than."

"Will do."

She smiled, and looked down at their still clasped hands.  "So, this is about taking me on a vacation because I took you on a train ride?"

"Something like that."

"Arthur," she laughed, "this is really, really lovely, but I will literally go anywhere with you, you know.  A weekend trip to…well, to Rome, for instance, is totally fine."

"I know.  Let's call this a crash course in making a big gesture."

"In that case, I'd say you passed with flying colors."  She reached up to give him a hug and he realized that she was shivering a little in the wind.

He rubbed a hand lightly over her back.  "Want to check out the interior?"

"Mmm, yes, let's.  I know  _you_  know what the whole place looks like down to the rivets, but I would love to explore a little."

He took her hand.  "Sounds good."

* * *

The interior was gorgeous, all paneled mahogany wood, gleaming brass fixtures, and decorative frosted glass. It was like a floating dose of train déjà vu.  Ariadne shot him a glance.  "Familiar."

He blushed a little.  "I figured you'd picked it for a reason."

"I did.  And you are a clever, clever man.  It's a sort of floating hotel, isn't it?"

"Basically.  With the occasional, all-inclusive black tie affair."

"Thus the need for the dress, I assume."

"We're at the captain's table tonight, too."

"We must be someone special, then."

"We must be."

They took in the public areas of the ship at a lazy pace, stopping to inspect the library, the small art gallery, the spa, the surprisingly large corridor of shops.  The ship had a nice selection of options for those inclined to attend evening shows, and even had a club of sorts.

"Now,  _that's_  something I haven't done since college, for sure."

"We can check it out, if you like," Arthur offered generously, though his expression was pained.

Ariadne couldn't help laughing at him, or the mental image that followed.  "No, no, we can skip it.  It's not something I've particularly missed.  However, you must promise that if they play a waltz at one of these black tie deals, you will save me a dance."

He smiled a little at that.  "Who else am I going to give them to?"

It was a good answer, and she rewarded him with a quick hand squeeze.  "I think we've seen everything they've got open for now.  What's next on the agenda?"

"We're on vacation.  Why is there an agenda?"

"Because you're you.  I will bet you a bottle of this ship's finest champagne that you have lists of possible activities for everyday we're on this boat.  Do you deny it?"

"Nothing set in stone."

"Of course not.  So what now?"

"Nothing until dinner, actually.  Want to check out the cabin?"

"Why, Mr. Hamilton!"  Ariadne pressed a dramatic hand to her breast.  "Are you asking me back to your room?"

"I believe I am, Ms. Graves."

"Well then," she grinned, "by all means, lead the way."

It was quickly apparent why the porter on the dock had looked so impressed with Arthur.

"I didn't even know ships  _had_  penthouse suites!"  Ariadne exclaimed as she stepped into the cabin.  She had expected something beautifully appointed but small.  What she was seeing was larger than the flat she'd lived in for the entirety of her tenure in grad school.

Upon entering the room, one was faced with a wall of windows, and a door to the left that led to a private outdoor verandah.  There was a sitting area with sofa and armchairs, a small kitchenette, and an intimate dining area.  Each section of the room was spaced so that it felt no more crowded than an average hotel suite, though Ariadne knew that space was always at a premium on these vessels.  The bed occupied its own partially walled room to her right, with tied-back curtains which could be pulled to shield it from the rest of the room, if need be.  Peeking her head into the bathroom, took in the double sinks and whirlpool tub.

Their luggage had been stacked neatly by the built-in dressers and closet which occupied the inside wall.  "Arthur, this is…wow.  This isn't like the Presidential Suite, is it?"

"It's an international vessel, so I doubt it.  It's called the Poseidon Stateroom."

"Cliché, but apt," Ariadne observed.  The suite was done up in tones of aqua and teal, which would have been pretty cheesy had they not practically glowed against the dark wood of the furniture.  "I will not mind hanging out in here for…" she turned to Arthur.  "How long are we actually on this boat?"

He was already in the process of unpacking his things.  "Fifteen days."

She joined him at the luggage, and started unlocking cases and stowing clothing.  "You know what?  No."  She shut her suitcase again with a decisive  _click_.  "We are on vacation, not a job.  This can wait."  Arthur had glanced up at her words, and she took the opportunity to grab onto his tie and give a tug.

He gave a little "urk," which admittedly wasn't the most romantic sound in his repertoire, but then he was pressing her against the closed closet door and kissing her senseless, so she thought she'd forgive him for it.  "What time is dinner?"  She gasped against his lips, then quickly returned to her previous occupation.

He pulled slightly away and shook his head as if to clear it.  "Um."  He lifted his wrist and squinted at his watch.  "Not for…a while."

"Perfect.  What do you say to breaking in the Jacuzzi?"

He said nothing, but bent to sweep one arm under her legs, which, she thought as he carried her across the stateroom, was utterly unnecessary and about all the answer that was required.

* * *

There were moments when Ariadne was convinced that the greatest benefit to being in a long-term relationship was having someone to zip up one's dresses.  This, she realized as she stretched past the point of comfort in an attempt to fasten the hook and eye at the top of her dress's back, was one of them.

"Hey, Arthur?  Could you… _ehn_ …give me a hand?"

Arthur was meticulously ironing his dress pants, to which Ariadne would have devoted a good deal more thought had she not been concerned with pulling a muscle in her arm.  He finished one pant leg, and then casually strolled over to save the day.  "No purple dress?"

She grinned over her shoulder.  "I'm saving it for the big ball.  Why didn't you send the suit out to be pressed when we got here?"

"I was going to, but you distracted me."  He finished zipping, then leaned in to nip at the nape of her neck.  She hoped he didn't regard the action as a sort of punishment, because it sure as hell didn't feel like one to her.

"I'd apologize, but I regret nothing."  She turned to face him and saw his smile.

"I don't mind ironing."

"I'm glad to hear it."  She straightened his perfectly pressed shirt collar for no other reason than she wanted to touch him.  "Because you make ironing much sexier than my mom ever did, that's for sure."

Soon, pressed and polished, they made their way to the formal dining room.  The ship had several options for eating, from fancy and formal to low-key and casual.  Somehow, Ariadne couldn't see Arthur digging into an all-you-can-eat buffet, but it was comforting to know that, should they ever need to, they would be able to eat their weight in chicken nuggets at any time, night or day.

The dining room was decorated in ivory and gold, and full of round tables surrounded by well-dressed couples.  Arthur and Ariadne were a good generation younger than the youngest people there, and as a result, dozens of eyes followed their progression to the head table, where the captain and first mate waited with another couple.  The feeling Ariadne got was that their observers couldn't decide whether they belonged there or not, which she heartily agreed with.  Arthur, of course, looked like he was exactly where he ought to be, and she made an effort to follow his lead.

She squared her shoulders, ordered herself not to fiddle with the single ring she wore on her right hand, and reminded herself that she looked damn good.  The dress was cocktail length, but a bright, emerald green that suited her and she'd thrown on a pair of bronze pumps with heels high enough to put her nearly on par with Arthur.  His hand rested warmly on the small of her back, and ahead of her the expressions of those awaiting them at the table were welcoming.

Arthur beat the host to her chair, which seemed to disappoint the other man and amused Ariadne enough to have her relaxing a little.  Arthur shook the hands of the other men at the table, then seated himself next to her.  They introduced themselves to the other couple, who looked to be nearing their seventies.  Mr. and Mrs. Dangerfield hailed from Charleston, South Carolina, and spoke with warm, Southern accents.  Chester Dangerfield was a retired businessman of enough renown that Arthur, at least, had heard of him.  Louisa Dangerfield appeared to have devoted herself to being a professional wife.  Ariadne was sitting to her right.

"Ariadne, is it?  What an unusual name!" Louisa exclaimed.  "Where is it you're from, my dear?"

"Maine originally, but we live in Paris."

"Paris!  Such a lovely city.  We adore it, don't we, Chester?"  She addressed the question at her husband, who seemed to understand that an answer was not required.  He patted her hand and continued his conversation with Captain Elsworth.  "Are you on your honeymoon, then?"

The question started Ariadne, though it was a reasonable one.  Most couples their age wouldn't have the money to afford such a trip unless it was for a special occasion.  "No," she smiled, "we just love to travel.  We both fly over the Atlantic Ocean so often that we decided we'd like to see it from a ship."

"It's the best way to travel, my dear.  Nothing like it.  Does your young man often take you with him when he goes?"

Ariadne felt like laughing at her assumption, as old-fashioned as their mode of transportation.  "We don't always travel together.  Arthur is an attorney.  I'm an architect."  Attorney was the profession they frequently gave Arthur, since it explained his fierce focus and ability to retain an amazing quantity of information, and there were enough lawyers in the world that people were less likely to ask detailed questions of him.  Folks actually tended to peg him as a lawyer.  Apparently he gave off a lawyer vibe.

Louisa was impressed, it seemed.  One of her sons was an architect, she explained, and she recalled vividly the hell that his schooling experience had been.

Ariadne had to agree with her there.  "I was fortunate, and found a mentor fairly early on who supported me until the end.  He even helped me find some really unique work placements."

"That  _is_  lucky!  And now?  What have you designed?"

"Nothing that you would have seen, I'm afraid," Ariadne replied apologetically.  "Mainly private residences.  I have had some designs published, if your son makes a habit of reading French architecture periodicals."

Louisa Dangerfield loved that possibility so much that she turned to her husband and actually insisted that he respond to her and promise that they would remember to mention the young lady architect's name to Geoffrey, who was apparently the son.

Her attention had been monopolized throughout the first two courses, but Ariadne took advantage of Louisa's distraction to turn to Arthur.  He was discussing what sounded like Norwegian politics with the ship's first mate, who was Dutch.  She grinned.  This was why Arthur did so well no matter where he was.  The man could converse intelligently about _anything_.

Captain Elsworth got her attention as their main course arrived, and engaged her in a discussion of the ship's interior design.  Ariadne had been greatly impressed with everything she'd seen, and said as much.  It seemed that this was the second voyage the ship, which was called the  _Rotterdam_ , had made, and they were eager for professional opinions on it.

All in all, the evening was far more enjoyable than either Arthur or Ariadne had expected.  Louisa had been positively enchanted by Ariadne's story of how Arthur had surprised her with the voyage.  When she discovered that the surprise meant that Ariadne had no idea what entertainment was available onboard, she regaled her with her options.  She was a talkative lady, but Ariadne decided that she liked her.  She had clearly spent her life being an ideal companion to her husband, and thrived on being helpful.

Though the conversation had dominated her attention throughout the evening, Ariadne dimly reflected that the food had been quite good.  She demolished her tiramisu, then allowed Arthur to make their goodbyes and extricate her from her eternal conversation with Mrs. Dangerfield.

They went immediately to an upper deck to stroll.  Arthur draped his jacket around her shoulders, and she clutched the lapels close to her chest to keep as much of his body heat trapped as she could.  Arthur wrapped an arm around her waist, first to keep her close, but it was soon obviously that he was practically the only thing keeping her upright.  She was flagging, and it was barely 10 PM.

"Jesus," she shivered.  "I forgot how exhausting it was, being social.  Do you mind if I just sleep all day tomorrow?"

"Of course not.  Let's go back to the cabin."

"I want to argue with you on principle, but I'm too damn tired.  I'm sorry."

He kissed the crown of her head and steered her back to the stairs inside.

* * *

In the stateroom, Ariadne reflected fondly on their afternoon in the Jacuzzi, thought about the pretty bra, garter, and stockings she'd put on underneath her dress, but eventually decided to hell with it and pulled on a nightshirt.

Arthur was in bed with a book when she climbed in. She curled up next to him, nestled her head on his shoulder, and was dead to the world and drooling before he could even wish her goodnight.

He marked his place and put the book down in favor of watching her sleep for a spell.  He wondered if she'd gotten the honeymoon question, as he had.  He was sure she must have, and he wished he had heard her response.  He stroked her hair gently.  She snuffled, gave a soft snore, and buried her face further into his neck.  With a grin he switched off the light, pulled the coverlet up, wrapped himself more firmly around her, and let them both fall into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cruise ships are fun, it's true. I am very jealous of A&A's stateroom. Penthouse suites really do exist on ships, I have discovered. This ship is based loosely (really, really loosely—like, only the floor plan of the stateroom) on the MS Rotterdam (also I stole the name, obviously) of the Holland America line. I stole the Rotterdam's itinerary, too, except for the disembarkation point. Mr. and Mrs. Dangerfield are based sort of on the Howells from Gilligan's Island. I don't know why. Also, true story: I knew a guy named Dangerfield once. Nice dude, awesome name.
> 
> Oh, now both Arthur and Ariadne have last names! I feel like Hamilton & Graves would be an excellent name for a noir detective agency. I smell an AU fic! (No, I don't. That will never happen.)


	13. In Which The Beginning is the End

Neither Arthur nor Ariadne were very good at relaxing, but they were trying.  The ship had stopped at a few ports of call along the coastlines of Spain, Morocco, and Portugal, and they had tried to play tourists.  Ariadne had snapped a few rolls of film with her father's beat-up old camera, one of the only things of his she had.  Most had been architectural inspiration shots, but some had been actual snapshots.  There were precious few photographs of Ariadne and Arthur together, and she was trying to fix that.  Arthur had taken to leaving his tie off during the day, about as casual as he could get, so they'd stand out less among their fellow passengers.  Ariadne sent a quick postcard from each port to Phillipa and James, which had been specifically requested.  Eames had requested them, as well, though not seriously.  She sent a few to him anyway.

They were still asked regularly whether they were on their honeymoon.  "I guess it's these shiny gold rings we're wearing," Ariadne had commented tongue in cheek after an excursion in Tangiers.

"We could start saying yes," Arthur suggested.

Ariadne grimaced in response.  "Yeah, but that would bring even more questions and demands for details down upon our heads.  I'd rather be thought odd."

They were fully at sea now, making their way across the Atlantic Ocean.  There was something terrifying and exhilarating about looking out their window and seeing nothing but blue all the way to the horizon.  They made an effort to be lazy and enjoy themselves.

Both had gone through the books they brought along within three days, and visited the shipboard library for more.  Ariadne spent a day in the spa.  Arthur checked out the art gallery and actually found a painting he liked enough to buy.  It would go well on one of his office walls, Ariadne thought.  They took in a few shows, mainly musical performances, and frequently spent their evenings afterwards on lounges either on one of the public decks or on their own private verandah.  The view of the stars from the ship was spectacular, and they would lie in the cold night air watching them until they dozed off.  One or both was usually up by eight AM at the latest no matter how late they'd stayed up, but one day they managed to sleep until nine, then rewarded themselves with all-you-can-eat waffles.

The big ball came in the middle of their week at sea, presumably to distract the ship's passengers from going stir-crazy.  Ariadne had gotten her nails done for no other reason than because she could, had her hair trimmed, and had bought a new pair of pretty jet earrings to wear with her dress.  She rarely devoted much time to primping, but was actually enjoying herself.

She'd nicked Arthur's laptop earlier because she liked to sing along to music while she showered.  She rarely brought her computer along on trips of any kind, and had loaded some of her digital library onto his on the odd occasion that she had a hankering for music while they were away from home.  The sleek silver device was still sitting in the corner of the bathroom, quietly playing The Magnetic Fields as she blow-dried her hair when Arthur came in to wash up.

She was terrible at putting her hair up, so she was letting it curl naturally and pulling it into a low side ponytail and hoping the result would look fashionable instead of lazy.  Arthur was frighteningly efficient as always, and was slicking back his hair as she applied thicker black eyeliner than she usually wore and hummed along to "The Book of Love."  She was considering the song's lyrics ( _I love it when you give me things and you, you ought to give me wedding rings_ ) and glanced up to find Arthur watching her in the mirror with a little smile.

She paused in her primping and stood back, still wielding an eyeliner pencil.  "What?"

He shrugged.  "I don't often get to see this side of you.  It's nice."

"Are you saying I should dress up more often?"

He laughed. "No.  It's just another facet."

"Whatever you say."  She fished around in her vanity case and came up triumphantly with mascara.  Stephen Merritt had shuffled onto "Busby Berkley Dreams," but Ariadne's mind was still on wedding rings.  "Do you think much about marriage?"

He shifted so that he was leaning a hip against the sink counter and was facing her profile rather than watching her in the mirror.  "Yes," he answered simply.

"Because of all of the honeymoon questions?"

"No."

She paused in her mascara-applying.  "Really?"

"Yes."

He was being reticent, even for Arthur.  She wondered if he was nervous.  His posture was relaxed, but that was easy enough for him to fake.  She took a moment to put her mascara away and shut the case before turning to face him.  "What do you think of it?"

He drew one hand from his pockets to brush something off her cheek, probably an eyelash.  "I'd like to marry you."

She tilted her head slightly towards his hand and smiled. "Would you?  Is this something you've given a lot of thought to?"

"Some."  He withdrew his hand from her face to return it to his pocket.  At first she thought he was just going to touch his totem, as he often did, but he drew something out instead.  Something that was smaller and less square than his die.  He looked down at the object, held lightly between two fingers.  It was a small ring—a solitaire ruby set in gold.

Her gaze was transfixed.  "When did you get that?"

"A few weeks ago."

She laughed.  "Were you actually planning to propose, or were you going to wait for the subject to come up on its own?"

He smiled ruefully.  "A little of both.  A part of me wanted to ask you right away, but then we were so busy and things were rushed and stressed.  Plus, I knew that we'd get the honeymoon question a fair amount on a cruise, and I was interested in your reaction."

"And after you saw it?"

"I was going to ask you tonight.  You beat me to it."

She laughed again.  "Blame the music."  His face had fallen into its familiar solemn lines.  "I won't stop you if you want to ask me now."

He smiled that half-smile she loved.  "What if I want to wait for the night and the starlight?"

She took the short step forwards to close the distance between them, covered the hand holding the ring lightly with hers, and went up on her tip-toes to bring her face a little closer to his.  "Arthur. Ask me now."

He brought his face down until his lips hovered just over hers.  "Marry me?"

She grinned and laid her right hand on his neck in order to bring his lips firmly down on hers.  After spending a moment thus, she pulled back, opened her eyes, and touched her forehead to his.  "Yes."

They both turned their heads a little to watch as he slid the ring onto her small finger.  The ruby gleamed richly against her porcelain skin.  It was clearly an antique, from the 30s or 40s if she had to guess.  Ariadne was amazed by the size of it.  The scale was tiny, the single ruby mounted amidst delicate scrollwork engraved in the warm gold.  She knew, being Arthur, he would have taken into account the size of her hands, the hue of her skin, the colors of clothing and jewelry she wore the most, as well as that ethereal  _something_  that would make her smile.  He would have searched until he found exactly what he wanted, and settled for nothing less.  The love and knowledge encompassed by the tiny ring was what she treasured most.

"I love it," she told him, though he hadn't asked.  He smiled, the movement tickling her cheek where his lips were pressed.  She turned her head the slight distance back until her lips realigned with his.  "I love you."

He said nothing, but wrapped both arms around her and kissed her fiercely.  She was dimly pleased that he'd distracted her into forgetting to put lipstick on.

She laughed when he released her at last.  "Well, I'm certainly never going to be able to tell people I got engaged while standing in a bathroom wearing a robe and nothing else."

* * *

They were late to the ball.  The reminder of her bathrobe-clad self had put ideas into Arthur's head, and one thing had led to another.  Which had led to another.  In fact, they almost missed the ball entirely.

It had taken considerable willpower, but eventually Ariadne got into her purple gown, put on her new earrings, and actually managed to apply her lipstick.  Her hair was admittedly a bit more mussed than she had initially planned for it to be, but she was beyond caring about the finer points of fashion at that point.

Arthur's hair was easier to fix, and his tuxedo had never even made it off the hanger, so he looked perfect, as usual.  She might have grumbled about the ease with which he managed it, but he was hers, really hers, and she was feeling generous.  They jogged, laughing, to the ship's grand staircase and atrium, which was serving as the ballroom for the evening.

They paused for the silly formal portrait that was expected of them at the top of the staircase, and then met the Dangerfields as they descended.  The older couple had clearly been there for much longer and looked to be returning to their room for the evening.  Louisa took in their high color, unusually grinning faces, and the ring on Ariadne's finger in less than a second.  Her gasp of surprise and joy was loud, and drew the attention of about half the room.  Some of the people who had earlier in the week asked if they were honeymooners wandered over to offer congratulations, and Ariadne and Arthur found themselves in the unique situation of having to fend off well-wishers.  For two people so wholly lacking in family, it was a singular experience to say the least.

They finally made their way to the part of the atrium that was serving as a dance floor, just in time for Ariadne to get her waltz.  Rather than spend any more time in the crowded room, Arthur suggested they slip off to find food. In their earlier celebration, they had completely neglected to eat dinner.  The 24/7 buffet was still in operation, so they loaded their plates and snuck them back to the stateroom, where they found chocolate-covered strawberries and an extremely fine bottle of champagne awaiting them, gifts from the Dangerfields.

They devoured their food, and then gathered up the strawberries and champagne to take outside.  Arthur pulled the coverlet off the bed and Ariadne kicked off her shoes and pushed the two chaise lounges on the verandah together.  They wrapped the quilt around themselves and huddled in their finery in the cold, starry night, sipping champagne in flutes held by glasses their fingers were too cold to feel.

Soon, the food and drink had been consumed or abandoned, and Ariadne was warm enough, wrapped in the quilt and Arthur.  "I like our life."

He held her a little tighter.  "I do, too."

"I mean, it's an odd life.  The work we do, the travel, the stupid amounts of money, it's all really weird.  Do you think we could do it and have a family, too?"

He was silent, and she knew he was considering.  One of the things she loved best about Arthur was the knowledge that he would never give her an easy answer over the truth.  "It may not come as naturally to us as it would to a couple who actually were an architect and an attorney.  But I think marriage and family is supposed to come with adjustments.  If we want it, we'll make it work."  He smiled down at her.  "I can always count on you to be creative."

She tucked herself further into his shoulder and looked up at him.  "I can always count on you to be resourceful."  He pressed his lips to the crown of her head.  "This was a good idea, Arthur.  This cruise.  We should make it a point to do something like this annually.  Slow down, get away, relax."

"Take a vacation, like normal people do."

"Exactly."

They said nothing for a little while, just huddled together and watched the stars.  Arthur drew her left hand out from under the coverlet, and held it where he could see his ring on her finger and stroke the back of her hand with his thumb.  "It isn't always going to be easy."

"I know."  She took back the hand he held and pressed it to his cheek, turning it so he was facing her.  "But it's going to be an adventure."  She pulled his face down to hers.  "Ready to get started?"

He extricated himself from the quilt and lifted her—still wrapped in covers—from the chaise.  He kicked the stateroom door closed behind them, and carried her into the room, gaze never leaving hers.  "Absolutely."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting to wrap yourself in a blanket and lay on a lounge chair in the cold sea air is pretty much the only thing that I find appealing about cruises.
> 
> Fun fact: my original intent was to have these two kids get hitched at sea, because captains can marry people, right? Well, guess what: THAT IS A TOTAL LIE. Ship captains can marry people only if they also happen to be ordained by the sorts of bodies that ordain people, and even then it's preferred if the weddings happen in port or close to shore. A wedding in international waters? It would be a logistical nightmare, and very probably non-binding. Can you see Arthur doing something like that? I couldn't, either.


	14. Taxi Cabs and Wedding Rings

Ariadne hadn't really given a great deal of thought to how they were going to get from New York to Anchorage.  Arthur, of course, had.  The plan had been to go directly from the docks to the airport, but Arthur had changed their reservations to a later flight to give them a little more time in the city.  Time which they then spent getting married.

Ariadne insisted on handling the planning for the day.  Her main mission was to hire a car and driver for the day, so she decided to have fun with it.  When they disembarked to find a 1955 Lincoln Capri painted fire engine red awaiting them with uniformed driver standing nearby, Arthur laughed out loud.

Ariadne grinned at him.  "Not what you expected?"

He grinned back.  "Not quite."

"Good.  I like surprising you."

The car may have been the sleek hot thing of its day, but it was still about the size of a yacht.  They had no trouble at all fitting their bags into the boot, and happily had the entirety of the white leather back seat to themselves.  The driver knew where to go, so they sat back and watched the city fly by their windows.

The first stop was a downtown jewelry store to pick up the rings they'd ordered while at sea.  Lawrence, the sales associate with whom she'd spoken on the phone, was waiting for them at the door.  "Ms. Graves, Mr. Hamilton?"  When they answered in the affirmative, he introduced himself, giving a bright, toothy smile.  With the quick eye of a man who spent his days surrounded by shiny things, he took in and complimented Ariadne on her ring.

She smiled and raised her hand so he could get a closer look at it.  "Don't look at me, Mr. Hamilton here is the one with the good taste."

Lawrence looked at Arthur as they walked towards the rear of the showroom.  "Beautiful choice.  Do you know the provenance?"

Arthur, who made it a point to know as much history as possible, of course knew that of the ring.  He confirmed that it dated from around 1929, was designed by a prominent Parisian house, and had originally held a diamond rather than a ruby.

"The ruby is a truly striking choice," Lawrence commented as he rounded the appropriate counter.

Ariadne gave Arthur a sparkling grin, and he smirked at her in response.

Lawrence had been bent over behind the counter, but he stood and handed Arthur and Ariadne a black box each.  Ariadne's was larger to accommodate the greater size of the ring it contained.  She flipped it open, surveyed the band with a critical eye, and then peeked over the lid to see Arthur inspecting the contents of his box, too.  He met her eye, winked—actually  _winked_ —then closed the box with a snap.

"Perfect," he told Lawrence, who gave another toothy smile.

Ariadne looked back down at the ring she'd chosen for Arthur.  There were really only three things one had to consider when choosing a man's wedding band, she'd discovered.  Well, four, if you were marrying the kind of man who enjoyed a little bling on his ring.  She was not.  So, she'd had to choose material, thickness, and the hardness of the ring's edges.  She'd spent an evening drilling Arthur with questions meant to determine how he felt about each of the three options without outright asking him.  He'd known what she was up to, of course, but understood that simply telling her would ruin it.  So he answered her barrage of random questions as best he could.

The ring she'd chosen was platinum, four millimeters wide, with squared edges.  The result was a ring that looked cool and modern, but was proportional to his large hands without being ridiculously heavy.  She was pretty pleased with it.  The truth was, he probably would have been just as happy if she'd gone with gold, but all of his cufflinks were platinum or steel.  The thing she had been most nervous about was the engraving, as she'd specified a much longer phrase than the shop usually did.  She peeked inside the ring and smiled.  She hoped he remembered the moment as well as she did.

Praising Lawrence for coming through for them in such a short amount of time, she paid for the ring and tucked the box in her bag.  Arthur was waiting patiently nearby, oblivious to the many glances being shot his way by shop girls.  She walked over and tilted her head in the direction of the door.  "Ready to do this?"

He smiled down at her.  "Yeah."

Their driver was waiting where they'd left him in his bright red car.  Ariadne climbed in the back, but Arthur closed the door after her and walked around the car to speak with the driver through the window.  Ariadne made out "around the block" and "meet me," but could hear nothing else of the conversation.  Arthur knocked lightly on her window, winked— _again—_ and walked away from the car.  The driver started slowly in the opposite direction.

Ariadne decided he knew what he was about, and took the opportunity to dig the second garment she'd brought along out of her bag.  She stripped down to her camisole, and then pulled the shirt over her head. It was a billowy ivory with a wide boat neck and delicate lace along the neckline and cuffs.  She'd found it in a vintage shop, and had thought of it as her Woodstock shirt.  It was long enough that she thought it had probably been a mini-dress to begin with, though she always wore it with jeans.  However…she looked down at herself, then quickly out the windows.  They were still moving, with no sign of Arthur. She kicked off her shoes, and then shimmied out of her jeans. Her shoes were brown Oxfords, and she put them back on sans socks and stuffed her discarded clothes into her bag, making sure the ring box was within easy reach.  She tugged her belt and then her cardigan back on, wrapping the latter around herself to disguise her change in outfit as best she could, as the car stopped and Arthur climbed a little awkwardly back into it.

Surprisingly, he didn't even glance her way, so her worries about him seeing her dress were unfounded.  He seemed primarily concerned with keeping something behind his back.  She decided to allow him his secrets.  It was, after all, their wedding day.

With a glance behind to see that they were settled, the driver headed off towards his next destination—the courthouse.

* * *

They pulled up in front of a grand, colonnaded building, their snazzy red car bright against the backdrop of somber grey marble.  The door on Arthur's side swung open before the car had even come to a complete stop.  Ariadne saw him tense, and then relax as his eyes found the man standing outside.  "Dom."  He climbed out to shake hands with the other man.  "Found yourself in the neighborhood?"

"Something like that.  I hear congratulations are in order."  He smiled, looking relaxed and entirely at odds from the man Ariadne had first met three years before.  She imagined he looked a little like he did when he and Arthur first met, and she was doubly glad that she'd called and asked him to make a quick cross-country trek to be their witness.  Cobb glanced at the car.  "Quite a ride.  Your bride somewhere in there?"

"I'm here."  She scooted across the seat, shedding her cardigan as she went.  When she stepped out, she figured she looked about as bridal as a girl could manage from the backseat of a moving car.  Her ivory dress hit her a few inches above the knee, its flowing lines broken by the thick leather belt fastened just below her ribcage.  Her only other adornment was her engagement ring, a long string of coral beads that had been a gift from Anuli, and the earrings Arthur had given her for Christmas.  She knew she wasn't the most traditional-looking bride, but if she had to hazard a guess based on the look on Arthur's face, she'd say she pretty well knocked his socks off.

"Where did the dress come from?"

"What were you hiding behind your back?" She shot back and turned to Cobb.  "Thanks for coming."  She leaned to give him a hug.

"Wouldn't have missed it.  Phillipa's a little put out that you didn't need a flower girl, however.  Speaking of…" he was looking past her, and she turned to find Arthur holding a small bouquet of red carnations.

"This is what I was hiding behind my back."

She laughed.  "Good answer."  She took the bouquet and held it to her face.  She hadn't even thought about flowers, but leave it to Arthur to fill in the details.  "Let's go."

The day after Arthur proposed, Ariadne suggested they get married at sea.  Ships captains could marry people; everyone knew that, and what better way to have a low-key wedding?  She was dismayed to learn that ships captains could  _not_  marry people (unless they were an officiate in addition to being a captain—which Captain Elsworth was not), and they  _especially_  could not do so in the middle of the Atlantic Ocean.  Their day in New York then seemed to be the perfect solution.  Except, as she discovered with additional dismay, they would have to wait twenty-four hours between securing their marriage license and actually getting married.  Which would not have been a terrible thing, except that they were due in Toronto the next morning.  She was forced to take drastic action.

Saito was the kind of person who did not forget a good turn done him.  Ariadne had felt a little odd calling in a favor for something so small, but as it turned out, Saito was on very good terms with the mayor of New York City.  And when the mayor calls you and asks you to sign a judicial waiver, apparently you show up to do it personally.  Or so they discovered when they arrived at the Marriage Bureau and found the Manhattan County Clerk waiting for them, the necessary judicial waiver in hand.  They introduced themselves, and the clerk and Cobb went into the office.  Arthur and Ariadne paused a moment, considering the heavy wooden door in front of them.

"Are you ready?"  His voice was low and calm.  She linked her fingers with his and leaned her head against his right shoulder.

She nodded at the sign to the left of the door declaring the marriage license fee.  "Do you have $35?"

He patted his chest, indicating his coat pocket, then reached to open the door.

"Wait."  He stopped, and she extracted one carnation from her little bouquet, broke off most of the stem, and tucked the bloom into the buttonhole on his lapel.  "There. Now you're ready."  She straightened his lapels, smoothed a hand down his tie, and smiled up at him.  "Let's get married."

Fifteen minutes later, they were wed.  They'd paid their $35, filled out their marriage license, submitted their judicial waiver, paid the subsequent $25 fee for the actual ceremony, and said their vows.

It felt a little silly, crowded into a small municipal office with three men in addition to her fiancé, gripping her flowers and grinning like a fool, but in a way it was absolutely the perfect way to marry Arthur.  His eyes never left hers throughout the ceremony, a little smile softening his angular features, though there was no more of that disconcerting winking.  She repeated after the officiate; trying to remember the words as she said them, and had the impression that Arthur was doing to same thing.  Cobb obligingly agreed to take Ariadne's bouquet, and then produced their rings.  Ariadne smiled to see hers, a small band of warm, hammered gold.  Once they'd exchanged the rings, Arthur wove his fingers with hers and held them through the end of the short ceremony, releasing them only to brace her face with his hands during that delicious kissing-of-the-bride.

Almost before she was aware it was happening, Cobb had turned her away from Arthur and pressed a quick kiss to her forehead.  "Congratulations, Mrs. Hamilton."

She grinned up at him.  "Thank you, Mr. Cobb."  She took her bouquet of flowers back from him and turned back to throw her arms around Arthur, who laughed and reached a hand out to shake Cobb's.

"Thanks, Dom. Really."

They signed their marriage certificate, which Cobb then witnessed, and thanked the officiate and county clerk.  They decided they had time for a breakfast brunch before their flight, and headed back out into the hall.

Waiting outside was another couple who looked to be in their mid forties.  The woman was in a pretty white tea dress and matching pillbox hat, the man looking stiff in a suit.  They were holding hands and appeared as if they were trying hard not to be nervous, and failing.  They walked past, and Ariadne realized that the woman hadn't been holding a wedding bouquet.  On a whim, she turned back to press her carnations into the startled woman's hands.  She looked at them both and smiled widely.  "Good luck, you two."  She pressed the woman's hands again, and then turned to catch up with Arthur and Cobb where they stood waiting.

"Thank you!" the woman called after them, "And congrats!"

Ariadne turned and waved.  "You too!"

* * *

Much later on the plane (a tiny private affair Saito had apparently arranged as a wedding present), Ariadne slid her engagement ring back onto her ring finger, pleased to see the way the two rings fit together.  Turning herself in her seat, she stretched her legs out across Arthur's lap.  He rested his warm hands on her bare calves, and she signed happily.  "Not too bad for someone who's rotten with details, huh?"

He laughed.  "Not bad at all."

"So what's waiting for us in Toronto?"

"A train."

She smiled.  "Really?  We're honeymooning on a train?"

"Well, it wasn't a honeymoon when I planned it, but yes, I suppose so."

"Where does it go?"

"All the way across Canada, from Toronto to Vancouver.  We'll fly from there to Fort Richardson."

"Not a bad way to spend…how long?"

"Nine days.  That gets us there early.  Didn't you say exactly thirty days?"

"I like to allow extra time."

"Of course you do."  She levered up and curled herself into his side.  He wrapped an arm around her shoulders.  She took his other hand and fingered his wedding ring.  "We got married, Arthur."

He linked his hand with hers.  "We did.  Happy?"

"Really happy.  Do you like your ring?"

He pressed his lips to hers and smiled. "I do.  Though I still don't know why you needed to know the make and model of my first car to pick it out."

She laughed.  "Everything is significant.  Did you look inside?"

He cast her a quizzical look.  "Inside…the ring?"

"Yeah."  He shook his head, and reached to remove it, but she laid her hand over his.  "Not now, but check it out later. Right now—" she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled herself into his lap, "right now, I want to kiss my husband."

"As it happens, I was planning on kissing my wife."

"What a happy coincidence."

Which is how they spent the duration of the flight.

* * *

Somewhere between Toronto and Winnipeg, in a sleeper car which was happily twice the size of the one they had shared in France nearly three years ago, Arthur came awake.  Ariadne was curled into his side, her breathing soft and steady.  He cast around for what had woken him, and realized that they'd fallen asleep with the light on.  He reached out a hand to switch it off, and the light glinted off his wedding ring.

It was still startling to see it there, jarring and thrilling to think of what the metal band represented.  The rest of his life spent with the extraordinary creature in bed with him.  He turned to look at her as she slept.  She was changing and constant, a million things to discover wrapped up in a single, lovely being.  His wife.  He smoothed a lock of hair that had fallen across her face behind her ear, and found himself looking at his ring again.  He drew it off, recalling her earlier words, and squinted at the tiny words encircling the inside of the band.

" _There's nothing quite like it."_

He recognized his own words from the very beginning of the Fischer job, and understood that she was using them to describe so much more than shared dreaming.

"What do you think?"  Her voice was thick and sleepy, but her eyes were open.

He put his ring back on, switched off the light, and leaned into kiss her.  "I think I'm glad you couldn't stay away," he murmured against her lips.

She hummed in response.  "I'm glad you couldn't either.  Love you."  He could tell from her voice she was drifting back to sleep.  The train rocked on the tracks.

He laid his head on the pillow, closed his eyes, and smiled against her hair.  "Love you, too."

_End_


	15. Life Goes On

Important Dates

May 5th, 2013: Wedding Day

July 23rd, 2013: Second Wedding Ceremony ( _Evening ceremony, Cobb property, California. Phillipa_ really _wanted to be a flower girl._ )

November 14th, 2013: The Day Eames Tricked A Woman Into Marrying Him ( _Julian and Anuli's wedding, Cape Town.  Be nice, Arthur._ )

August 2nd, 2014: Henry Dominic Hamilton; 7 lbs, 4 oz. ( _10 fingers, 10 toes, 2 ears, utterly perfect_ )

February 12th, 2015: Michel Philippe Eames, 8 lbs, 1 oz.

October 24th, 2016: Beatrice Graves Hamilton, 8 lbs, 7 oz. ( _Lovely little thing.  We call her "Bea," Henry calls her "Bebe"_ )

November 13th, 2016: Dayo Aidan Eames, age 5, comes home ( _Adopted from Ethiopia_ )

March 17th, 2018: Ariadne wins design competition for Dubai Modern Art Museum ( _Guess what isn't fun—building a museum with a 1- and a 3-year-old.  Arthur took some time off._ )

July 21st, 2019: Museum receives Aga Khan Award for Architecture

* * *

December 24th, 2020:

Ariadne was rifling through Arthur's desk looking for a set of toy cars she'd stashed there earlier in the month when she came across the list.  She'd seen it a few times over the years and added her own notes, but was always amused to find it again.  She found it interesting that in Arthur's mind, all of their life success related to babies and architecture, when he'd had some successes of his own.

He and Eames had formally formed a partnership in January of 2014, a couple months after Eames had gotten married, and just after Ariadne had discovered that she was pregnant.  It was something both men had discussed idly over the years, but apparently taking a dive into the marriage-and-family pool made them want something more stable.  They were coming up on six years of working together in that capacity, and neither was dead yet, which Ariadne considered a great success.

She shut the drawer she'd found the list in and opened another.  She could hear voices from the second floor, and knew that if she didn't find the cars soon, they wouldn't make it into Henry's stocking and  _then_ what would she do with them?  But— _ah_ —there they were.  She dashed for the living room and shoved them into her son's already bulging stocking, then jumped when the Christmas tree to her left shook ominously and let out a yelp.  Peeking into it, she saw not just Crash, but  _both_  cats clinging to the trunk of the Douglas fir.

"Oh, for crying out loud…"  She knew from experience that her arms were too short for successful cat-tree extraction, and went to intercept Arthur where he was with the kids.  It was Ella's first Christmas with them, and the last thing she wanted was for the girl to have to witness a repeat of last year's accidental tree fire.

Arthur was descending the stairs in a crowd of children, chattering away in French and English.  Much had changed about their life in the ten years they'd been together.  They had kept their flat in Paris, but had made their primary residence in the countryside, not far from where Stephen and François Miles lived.  The house wasn't huge, but it was a much better fit for a family of four than the flat had been.  This year, however, Henry had started school in the city, and they'd spent more time there.  The longtime resident of the flat just above theirs had recently passed away, and they had decided to buy it and connect the two.  It was the first real-world design project she had taken on since the Dubai museum (she found she still loved designing for dreams most of all), and she was having a good time.  It was also the first thing she'd designed for their family.

Ariadne reached out the take Bea from Arthur and said simply, "Could you check the tree please?"  He nodded with understanding and left them.  Ariadne shifted her daughter on her hip and looked to the other two kids, practically shaking in their excitement to get to the living room.  "Papa's going to make sure Santa's all finished up in there.  Does anybody want some juice?"

They didn't of course, they wanted presents, but the promise of "just one glass, then it's time for presents" swayed them.  She may also have offered a bribe of chocolate bells.  Ella  _adored_  chocolate bells.  The girl had come to stay with them about 3 months before, an orphan at 10, much as Ariadne had been at 12.  She and Arthur had talked it back and forth for years, more so after Eames and Anuli brought Dayo home, but had finally asked Anuli for advice about it the previous fall.  She had plumbed the depths of her non-profit contacts and found what she thought was a good fit for them—shy, bookish Ella.  She'd been with them since September, and they had started the paperwork to adopt her permanently.  She'd decided to take their last name, and would be Ella Juliette Hamilton.  Another name and date on Arthur's little list.

A shout from the next room gave the all-clear, and the juice was abandoned as the three kids ran from the kitchen.  Ariadne followed, and watched in amusement as Crash flopped down belly-up in the face of so much potential affection.  The smaller cat, Io (which had been Bea's choice of all things—they had been working their way through a storybook of Greek myths), was still in Arthur's arms.  She was much more timid and reacted to the stampede of children by clawing her way up his chest and perching, terrified, on his shoulder.

The look he cast her was unamused, and she swallowed a laugh.

"Ariadne, where is your sock?  And the sock of Arthur?"  Ella inquired.  She had only spoken French when she moved in, and despite the fact that they all spoke it fluently, she had requested, and Ariadne had agreed to teach her English.  It seemed she had a knack for languages, and it was coming along very well.

She reached out a hand to ruffled the girl's honey curls.  "We don't have them,  _chou chou_.  Only the children.  Our gifts are under the tree.  We usually open from oldest to youngest, so why don't you grab your stocking?"

Henry made a face like he was going to protest, since  _he_ had always been the oldest, but Arthur stopped him with a frown.  Introducing a brand-new older sibling into a family wasn't something you expected your kids to adjust to easily, but all told, they were doing a pretty grand job of it.  Small pouts aside.  Henry's eyes lit up devilishly as Ariadne watched, and she imagined that he'd just remembered that the Eames family would be by later for dinner, which meant Michel and Dayo, Henry's idol, would be there, which meant delicious retribution against the girls.  Ariadne caught Arthur's gaze and rolled her eyes.  He grinned back.  He'd seen his son's face light up, too.

Arthur removed the Io claws from his neck, placed her in the kitchen, and then came back to settle on the sofa with Ariadne.  He draped an arm around her shoulder, and they sat back to watch their kids open presents.  Henry was dark-haired, dark-eyed, and lanky, with skinny little limbs.  Ariadne imagined he'd look much like Arthur one day.  Bea's hair had been an inexplicable white blonde all through her short life, though at four years, it was darkening to something approaching caramel.  She was a mite of a thing, although already taller than Ariadne had been at her age.  Ariadne had a sneaking suspicion that she would spend her life being the shortest one in this family.  Ah, well. Ella said her mother had been small, so perhaps she'd have company.

She placed her hand on Arthur's knee and leaned to rest her head in the hollow of his neck.  "Did you ever imagine we'd have this, ten years ago?"

"Never.  Did you?"

She smiled.  "Not even  _my_  imagination was that good.  I think we've managed to assemble a pretty great family, though," she observed as Bea removed a chocolate bell from her stocking and generously offered it to Ella.  The older girl's love of them was no secret.

A forlorn cry startled the little company on the floor, and Henry lifted the toe of his empty stocking to find that Crash had gotten his face stuck inside it.  The kids dissolved into laughter.

Arthur chuckled, too.  "And just think: it all started with an idiotic cat."

Ariadne laughed.  "Oh, God."

* * *

Important Dates

April 14th, 2020: Ella Juliette Hamilton is ours.

November 2nd, 2020: Henry spells every word on his quiz correctly.  ( _Guess who insisted that this be included?_ )

January 6th, 2021: Chantou Eloise Eames comes home.  ( _Adopted from Cambodia._ )

August 28th, 2023: Phillipa Cobb enters  _La Sorbonne._ ( _She frequently comes over for Sunday dinners.  Ella_ adores _her._ )

August 24th, 2025: James Cobb enters Stanford University.  ( _This was something of a tug-of-war.  Miles wanted him to come to Paris like his sister, but James is definitely a California boy.  He still visits every summer._ )

The list, and life, goes on, and on, and on, and on…

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rereading this, I recall the stupid amount of math writing this little epilogue required. So many dates.


End file.
